


Crossroads

by Joseph_B_Bergstrom



Series: Crossroads Trilogy [1]
Category: Military Science Fiction - Fandom, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Final Battle, Gen, Hoth (Star Wars), Marines, Military Science Fiction, Novel, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Relatively Hard Science Fiction, Somewhat Well Edited, Space Battles, Space Opera, Tanks, War, Yavin 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-01-13 09:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 49,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18465856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joseph_B_Bergstrom/pseuds/Joseph_B_Bergstrom
Summary: The Alliance to Restore the Republic has just won its first victory against the despotic Imperial forces, striking from a hidden base deep into the galactic core. But Grand Moff Tarkin—the most ruthless of all Imperial governors—and Emperor Palpatine have decreed the destruction of the Alliance by any means...including the use of the Death Star.The planned destruction of the Alliance is mere days away, when the unthinkable happens: Grand Admiral Thrawn, the most brilliant of all Imperial commanders, defects.This is a finished novel.Originally posted on fanfiction.net





	1. Title and Dedication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this story with one of my best friends, Joshua Wolff, and I must for the sake of honor and decency credit him here.

_All rights to the Star Wars intellectual properties and characters are owned by Lucasfilm, and no infringement is intended. This is a work of fan fiction, written by a few passionate fans._

_This piece of fiction takes place in a timeline alternate to that of the new Canon, and to that of the old pre-Disney Legends. However, this timeline draws nearly all inspiration from Legends, and attempts to faithfully recreate the spirit of Legends._

* * *

**Dedication**

For my friends and family, who don't quite roll their eyes at me.

— _Joseph_

To start, I really didn't think that this day would come; but finally, after many re-writes and editing, this book is finally ready to be read…maybe. Dedicated to all the weirdos who have the guts to say they know me (much less, related to me).

And to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ who makes me who I am.

Enjoy!

— _Joshua_

* * *

**Acknowledgments**

We would like to thank our families, friends, and loved ones. Without their support, this endeavor never have even gotten off of the ground.

We would also like to thank our editors and proofreaders, who suffered through multiple unfinished versions against their will…


	2. Prologue

# PROLOGUE

 

Sheev Palpatine. We watched his ascent to the pinnacle of power with a mixture of horror and awe. Horror at his commands, and awe at his limitless ambition.

—From _The Journal of the Whills_

 

* * *

_**Imperial Center, Core Worlds, 0 BBY** _

The Imperial Palace was a tall building, towering over the surrounding cityscape just as the Jedi Temple—the ruins of which the Palace was built on top of—had two and a half decades prior.

A transport airspeeder cut through the orderly traffic patterns of airspeeder traffic, escorted by four Coruscant Security Force speeders. The pilots of the commercial speeders, stuck in their traffic patterns, glared at the CSF speeders that were ignoring the patterns, but the sight of a grand admiral’s insignia painted on the escorted airspeeder gave them pause.

The transport speeder was occupied by a single passenger, who studied the flow of traffic to and from the Palace with neutral eyes. The pilot was incapable of understanding more than flight commands, and its photoreceptors remained fixed on the instrument panel. The machine could not have comprehended his passenger’s ability to pick apart even the most minute details, even if he had noticed.

The single passenger’s gaze turned from the traffic, and to a balcony appearing from the upper levels of the Palace, where a barely-visible figure was watching the police cadre with dark eyes. The passenger’s eyes turned cold, and his lips pursed momentarily before he recomposed his expression.

* * *

The Imperial Guardsmen stood at rigid attention, their force pikes held perfectly vertical, while the lone passenger climbed out of the airspeeder.

The passenger straightened his meticulously pressed uniform, taking the moment to study the Guardsmen. Under their expressionless helmets—inspired by the helmets of the Mandalorian Death Watch—and ceremonial robes, they were perfectly identical to any observer.

Any observer, except for Grand Admiral Mitth’raw’nuruodo.

He let his fiery eyes sweep the Guardsmen, and a slight smile appeared on his lips. “I see His Grace sent the same Guardsmen to greet me as before,” he said.

The Guardsmen didn’t stir, and after a moment the Guard on Thrawn’s right took one step forward. _“Your sidearm,”_ he demanded, his voice coming through the facemask distorted.

Thrawn moved his hand down to the regulation sidearm and removed it from the holster. The Guardsmen didn’t react, but Thrawn could almost see them calculating how to kill him should he make a wrong move with the pistol.

He extended his hand, and the Guardsmen collected the weapon without a word.

“Take me to our emperor.”

* * *

“Your Grace,” Thrawn said, bowing deeply.

The Emperor of the Galactic Empire, Sheev Palpatine, remained seated on his throne. “Grand Moff Tarkin requested this time, but you requested it first, Grand Admiral,” he said thinly.

“I see, Your Grace.”

Palpatine leaned back. “Rise, and begin,” he commanded

Thrawn straightened. “The Enemy has arrived, Your Grace,” he said simply.

For a moment, silence reigned in the audience chamber, before Palpatine broke it: “Where?”

“The Crispin system, in Wild Space, Your Grace. They have been halted by my people, for the time being, but they grow stronger by the day.”

Palpatine seemed to sag momentarily, before renewed energy brought anger to his eyes. “You informed me that your people did not expect them to arrive for another thirty years.”

Thrawn nodded in admission. “I did,” he said simply. “It would appear my people were wrong.”

Palpatine stood, and walked toward a window, leaving Thrawn still standing before the throne. Palpatine contemplated the ornate glasswork, before turning to speak again to Thrawn. The action made him seem like a living shadow. “You are here only to tell me this?”

For a moment, Thrawn’s eyes narrowed. It had been fifteen years since the promise had been made, but Thrawn knew that Palpatine remembered it still. “I am here to resign my commission, Your Grace, and assume command of the fleet—as we agreed.”

Palpatine stared at Thrawn menacingly, but the Chiss grand admiral refused to let his gaze waver. “The fleet is not ready,” Palpatine said finally.

Thrawn’s eyes narrowed again, “That is for me to decide, Your Grace.”

Palpatine clasped his hands together in front of his body, his loose robes falling from his thin limbs. “You seem to forget who I am,” he said vilely.

“I forget nothing, but you seem to have forgotten who has kept you in power.” For the first time, Thrawn refused to refer to the Emperor as ‘Your Grace.’

The Imperial Guardsmen activated their force pikes at an unheard command, and leveled them at the Chiss grand admiral, though he was several meters from the tips of their weapons.

Palpatine began walking nearer to Thrawn, stopping ten meters from the Chiss. “You, more than any—even Vader—are responsible for maintaining the New Order.” His tone was sickening, and every part of Thrawn wanted to recoil from the raw sense of danger that Palpatine was exuding. “But you are only a liability now,” the Emperor continued. “So run back to your people.” He smiled, no warmth expressed in the action. “Perhaps you will hinder the Far Outsiders, perhaps not. Either way, the Unexplored Regions will welcome Imperial rule.”

Thrawn closed his eyes against the vision of Csilla burning, as the Far Outsider tortured all that lived to death. “You are insane,” he said softly.

“To a _man_ of your vision, perhaps.” Palpatine said, sneering the word ‘man,’ for Thrawn’s features made him look like anything _but_ a man. “But men of your vision will never stop the Far Outsiders. Men like Tarkin, who can think beyond the confines of this universe, _will_ ,” he said

Thrawn could feel the danger still pulsating through the air, but anger began to take hold of his mind. He managed to keep his voice quiet. “Tarkin will never stop them,” he said icily. “Stardust will not stop them.”

Palpatine’s face became a mask of shock.

Thrawn felt himself losing command of his own anger, but he continued to speak: “Oh yes, I know about your pet project. Half of the Navy knows about it.” He shook his head. “A battlestation the size of a moon will not slow the Far Outsiders down—the defensive armament is insufficient.”

“The offensive armament, my dear Grand Admiral, can destroy a planet, and _that_ is all that is required.”

Thrawn stared, at a loss for words. Finally, he said, “I will take my leave.” He held his gloved hands before his face, studying them with blank eyes. “I will leave your service at the conclusion of my campaigns.”

“Be sure that you do, Grand Admiral.”

The Chiss grand admiral did not bow to the emperor who had just betrayed him. He only turned, and walked away.

* * *

_**Nez Peron, Outer Rim, 0 BBY** _

Grand Admiral Thrawn rode in the back of the groundcar, as the 1098th Stormtrooper Legion paraded through the streets of Yuun around him. His campaign was at an end.

The ruins of buildings were everywhere, and where plasma bolts had slagged entire districts of the rebellious city, only a meters-thick plate of glass could be found.

The citizens of the city stared at the parading soldiers with a mixture of fear and hope. Fear from the Empire’s reputation for punishing defiant systems, and hope that they might be able to eat more than rats again.

“Little people,” the other occupant of the back of the groundcar, Moff Neros, said.

For a moment Thrawn thought that the Imperial Moff was referring to the higher than average gravity of Nez Peron, but quickly realized that he was referring to the mental capacities of the people on this world.

“But they are _my_ little people, at least,” Neros said, looking out the blast-proof canopy. “Thank you for delivering them to me mostly unharmed, Grand Admiral, so that I may teach them what comes of traitors.”

Thrawn simply nodded. His thoughts were elsewhere.

Even through the transparasteel canopy, the din from the marching bands was deafening. Spaced evenly between each platoon of Stormtroopers, a unit of Navy spacers in dress uniforms pounded out the excruciatingly loud strains of the Imperial March.

It was a sight Thrawn had seen before, and the faces of the ‘little people’ as they watched their conquerors continue to smear their faces in their defeat made him want to close his eyes. But he couldn’t. This was the price he paid for having pledging his sword to the Empire, and he could never afford to forget it.

 _Soon it will be over._ But that thought did not do much to reassure his conscience.

“What the he—” Neros began to swear as a man ran through the crowd. The man’s face was pale, and his eyes wide. Then the world seemed to blow up.

Neros was thrown bodily across the back of the groundcar, as a series of improvised explosive devices ripped the 1098th Stormtrooper Legion apart. Thrawn had known what was coming, and had grabbed one of the handholds right before the explosives went off.

The crowds screamed in shock and fled in a panic. Partly from seeing three thousand men be literally torn apart, and partly because they knew that the act of a few fanatics had just condemned them all to death.

The surviving Stormtroopers shakily formed defensive perimeters, but didn’t give the burning groundcar that had been carrying their grand admiral and the foppish moff a second glance. Flames were licking around the outsides of it, and any minute now they expected to see the fuel reservoirs touch off.

The driver of the groundcar was trying to blink blood out of his eyes, when a combat vibroblade snaked around the headrest and was plunged into his neck.

Neros stared at the Chiss, with his eyes wide in horror, as Thrawn pulled the vibroblade free from the dying man—as if he were a monster from a fairy tale.

“Why?” he asked, choking in terror as Thrawn pulled his sidearm out with his free hand.

“Honor,” Thrawn answered simply, before squeezing the trigger.

Even as Neros’ dead body slumped to the plush seating, Thrawn plunged the vibroblade into the flooring, and pulled the vibrating blade through the tough durasteel frame, cutting a man-size circle in seconds.

The flames were sizzling now, and he realized, as he struggled to move the cut-away section, that he might have timed this a bit too closely.

The cut-away section finally moved, and through the new hole in the flooring, he could see the top of a manhole.

* * *

General Leats swore at his men who hadn’t even made a move toward the burning groundcar. Thrawn could still be alive in there! He—

The explosion from the groundcar echoed throughout the ravaged streets, and he stared at the car again. Pieces of it were streaking through the sky, vapor trailing behind.

No man could survive that. Not even Thrawn.

“You.” Leats singled out an aide. “Get a message off to Imperial Center.” He turned away from the burning husk of the vehicle. “Let them know Grand Admiral Thrawn is dead.”


	3. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, wow...I put up the prologue and got three comments in the space of a single day. I don't know if this is par for the course for this site, but even if it is, I want to say that I'm flattered you folks took time out of your day to read it, and to leave a comment. I hope the rest of the story lives up to your expectations.
> 
> Happy reading,  
> —Joseph

# CHAPTER ONE

 

The Death Star. What an idiotic name for a battlestation.

—From _The Stardust Files_ by Galen W. Erso, Imperial Superweapons Engineer,  
published posthumously from Dr. Erso’s journal entries

 

* * *

  _ **T**_ _ **he Maw Cluster, Outer Rim, 0 BBY** _

Starlight shone into the Maw, bent and distorted by the countless black holes that made this wholly unnatural sector their home. The massive black holes seemed to dance in the void, never touching as they orbited one another. They formed a near-impenetrable labyrinth, and the Cluster was avoided by everyone.

Everyone, except for the wildest of the already wild smugglers taking the precious spice out of the prison-mines on Kessel, and the Imperial Starfleet.

Hyperspace routes in and out of the Maw were few, needing to be recalculated continually, lest a gravitational fluctuation from a black hole shift the size or shape of the hyperspace limits. Untold numbers of ships had disappeared into the Maw, their first jump successful, only to never make the return trip out.

Because of that, it was the one place in the galaxy that was truly safe from prying eyes…

The warped and distorted starlight shone on the slate gray hull of the planetoid, revealing the massive crater that housed the main armament of the _DS-1_ -class battlestation.

Five _Imperial_ -class star destroyers flanked the world-killer, their combined processing power struggling to calculate a safe route through the Maw for the immense battlestation. At any point, the Maw Installation—an enormous research installation specializing in making Grand Moff Tarkin’s fevered dreams a reality—could easily have rendered assistance with their gargantuan computers, but Rear Admiral Lee refused to even consider the possibility.

The Death Star might have been built and manned by Tarkin’s lackeys, but getting the battlestation out of the Maw was the _Navy’s_ responsibility. And in a time when the Navy was facing hard times from Tarkin’s sway over the Emperor, he’d be a ciken before he accepted any help from the Grand Moff.

“Astrogation reports course laid in,” a staffer reported to the flag captain of the star destroyer _Arai_ , Gene Henson.

Henson glanced a question at Rear Admiral Lee, who nodded slowly.

“Flash the course to them,” Captain Henson ordered.

“Aye, sir. Transmitting course.”

Lee closed his eyes for a second. He had no doubts what would happen to him should Tarkin and the Emperor’s shiny new toy disappear into a black hole…

The Death Star smeared into a streak of light, before vanishing into hyperspace.

“Report,” Captain Henson ordered.

* * *

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 BBY** _

“It would appear the Navy decided not to kill us,” Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin said, smiling without any humor as the Death Star hurtled through hyperspace.

“So it would, sir,” Commander William Sheplin, Tarkin’s personal aide, replied politely.

* * *

**_Yavin Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 BBY_ **

The small _Lambda_ -class shuttle was a tiny speck against the massive gas giant Yavin. Had the shuttle pilot wished, he could have been invisible to any sensor by staying in the upper magnetosphere of the planet. But, instead, he drifted far outside the magnetic disturbances, his emissions making him as obvious as a search beacon.

Mitth’raw’nuruodo studied the control board of the shuttle, waiting in silence for any transmission from hidden ships or bases in the star system. Naval Intelligence had written Yavin off in their search for the Rebel base, deeming it too hostile an environment for even the most dedicated guerrilla fighters. But Thrawn understood that the dedication of revolutionaries could never be underestimated.

No transmissions found their way to his comm pickups, and he smiled slightly. They were undoubtedly waiting for him to contact them first, and were perfectly willing to maintain comm silence until he did. Had the information he carried on his datachips not been time-sensitive, he would have gladly engaged in their waiting game.

He depressed a small stud on the control board and began speaking: “All nearby Alliance naval units, this is Grand Admiral Thrawn, late of the Imperial Navy. I enter this system unaccompanied, and without malice. I seek an audience with your leadership and intelligence groups. I have vital, and time-sensitive, information.”

There were several seconds of silence, before a staticky voice answered through Thrawn’s headset: _“Imperial shuttle, do not deviate your course. Transmit slave-circuit codes immediately.”_

The shuttle’s control board beeped, and Thrawn smiled tightly as he saw the broadcast had originated from a T-65 X-Wing fighter orbiting behind his shuttle. A light flared up on the control board, as the T-65 lit off its active sensors. The fighter had undoubtedly been drifting free with its engines powered off to avoid his passive sensors. Should the fighter pilot take the inclination, he could blow Thrawn out of the sky in ten seconds.

“Transmitting codes now,” Thrawn said.

* * *

_**Yavin IV, Outer Rim, 0 BBY** _

The shuttle ramp lowered slowly, hissing coolant rushing out of thermal vents at the same time.

Alliance Marines held their hidden positions in the jungle, weapons trained on the ramp. Behind the Marines, distant men studied the shuttle from the balcony of an ancient Massassi temple with macrobinoculars.

Thrawn descended the walkway with measured strides, keeping his hands in clear sight as he did so. At the base of the ramp he paused, waiting. The hidden Marines finished their initial thermal sweeps before letting a few of their ranks emerge from the thick jungle and move toward the shuttle.

Thrawn watched them approach him, knowing that one false move would find him shot without hesitation, and waited while one Marine searched him thoroughly. The Marine patting him down finished and stepped back, letting a comrade with a weapon-detector sweep Thrawn.

Thrawn smiled thinly at their considerable exertions, but was nonetheless impressed. He glanced at the landing pad they were all standing on. It was paved with a form of ferrocrete, and the surface was painted to resemble the top of a Massassi temple when not in use. Whoever had laid out the landing pads had been very clever.

The Marines finished the search to their satisfaction and waved Thrawn off of the landing pad. A handful of Marines threw a camo-net over the shuttle, while the rest led him through the lush jungle toward the nearest temple.

Creatures in the jungle growled and stomped as the party walked past, but they stayed out of sight: They’d learned to fear the strange weapons the Marines carried.

The path through the jungle had been well trodden, and Thrawn noted that the Rebels had chosen to weave a path through the jungle and around the trees, instead of cutting a straight one that could have been spotted from orbit.

They emerged from the jungle suddenly and led Thrawn across the cobblestone perimeter of a massive temple. The pyramid was a towering feat of primitive engineering built by the primitive Massassi, whose descendants still prowled the jungle.

At the entry to the temple, Thrawn studied the architecture with curious eyes. Silently, he watched the massive doors open. The doors were carved from local stone, and Thrawn marveled at the smoothness of their operation and the dark symbols that had been chiseled into the stone.

Inside the doors was what might have once been a large throne room, but was now an equally large hanger. The hanger was filled with all manner of Alliance strike-craft and fighters, from the antiquated Z-95 Headhunter to the astonishingly effective T-65 X-Wing.

He was led to a small holding cell, where he was left alone. No one had spoken to him yet, except for the pilot of the fighter.

Thrawn straightened his flawless white uniform, tugging at the hem of his jacket as he waited for the cell door to open. It opened a minute later, and a dark-uniformed Human entered. Thrawn caught a glimpse of the service pips: Alliance Intelligence. He smiled; he was going straight to the people who mattered.

“What is your name?” the intelligence officer asked, his voice smooth and subtle.

“I’m afraid it is unpronounceable to a Human,” Thrawn answered, his lips twitching upward again. “You may, however, refer to me as Thrawn.”

The intelligence officer showed no surprise or emotion, and Thrawn nodded his admiration of the man’s impeccable control.

“Rank and service number?” the intelligence officer demanded.

“Grand Admiral, Imperial Starfleet,” Thrawn said, amused at the need to confirm that he was whom he claimed he was. “Service number zeta four eight five three nine.”

The intelligence officer nodded, then turned and left the cell without uttering another word. The short interrogation had been a mere formality—they couldn’t possibly think he was a spy or saboteur—but Thrawn suspected the officer wasgoing to let him wait for a while anyway.

Ten minutes had passed before the intelligence officer returned. “Welcome to Yavin Four, Grand Admiral Thrawn,” he said glibly. “It’s a pleasure.”

Thrawn nodded gracefully. “The pleasure is mine.”

* * *

_**Alderaan Debris Field, Core Worlds, 0 BBY** _

William Sheplin picked his way through the deep interior of the Death Star, his well-trained mind automatically separating components of the reactors into two categories: Easily destroyed, and devilishly hard to destroy.

“ _Do you know what’s going on?”_ a distant voice asked, the words floating down the empty corridors.

Sheplin stopped, holding perfectly still, refusing to even breathe. The voice had been tinny, and he recognized it as the sound a Stormtrooper’s voice made when being broadcast from a helmet.

“ _Maybe it’s another drill,”_ a second distant voice said with that same tinny sound.

There was a moment of silence, and Sheplin thought they had moved on, before the second voice exclaimed: _“What was that?”_

Sheplin’s heart stopped for a moment. If he was found here he would have no excuse, and that might lead to unfortunate questions. He didn’t fear for his sake, but for the sake of the mission.

The first voice returned: _“Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”_

Sheplin closed his eyes in thanks, before slowly continuing along, cataloging more of the reactors’ components.

A man appeared in the hallway, making Sheplin stop in his tracks again. He was old, with a beard of red hair that was now streaked with white. He was dressed like a peasant, in a dirty old robe, but his face was distinguished, and his eyes were twinkling with soft humor, despite the situation he’d just been found in.

“Hello there,” the old man said. His voice had a distinctly Coruscanti accent, similar to Sheplin’s own Potsdamani accent. He seemed just as surprised as Sheplin.

Sheplin nodded. “Hello, sir,” he answered calmly, his hand drifting to the butt of his sidearm. If he had to kill this man, the Stormtroopers would hear the fight, and that would kark everything up.

The old man searched Sheplin’s eyes, before smiling in a surprisingly open fashion. “I wish you good fortune, in the war to come, Commander,” he said, sounding as if he knew Sheplin’s true mission.

And then he was gone. Sheplin looked around in surprise, but the old man had simply disappeared.

Uneasily, Sheplin continued mentally cataloging components. ‘Good fortune, in the war to come,’ he’d said. Without knowing why, he wished he’d said the same to the old man.


	4. Chapter Two

# CHAPTER TWO

 

The tide turned the day Thrawn defected. The Alliance went from a band of burnt-out Separatists and Republican diehards, to a military force to be feared.

—From _0 BBY-0 ABY: Yavin to Hoth  
_ by Tenten E. Reynolds, Military Historian

 

* * *

  _ **Yavin IV**_ _ **, Outer Rim, 0 BBY**_

The _Millenium Falcon_ settled onto the landing pad softly, repulsorlifts roaring and kicking up dust.

Ground crews rushed past the Marine sentries. They were in a slight panic after having seen the state of the ancient Corellian freighter, and even the Marines were wondering how that bucket of rust was still flying.

The roar from the ship diminished as the pilot toggled the repulsorlifts off, and the loading ramp slowly lowered a few seconds later.

Princess Leia Organa was the first one to offload, regal, composed, and elegantly adorned in a snowy white dress. A quiet sadness in her eyes gave her a mature look that belied her youth.

Considerably less composed than the princess, came a straw-haired young man, dressed in shabby peasant clothes with a silver tube clipped to his belt. He looked to be roughly the same age as the princess, but looked considerably less mature as he tried to hide the sadness in his own eyes.

“Who is that coming out of that ship?” Thrawn asked the young lieutenant who had been assigned to him.

“Princess Leia Organa, of Alderaan,” the lieutenant answered. “Scuttlebutt was that she’s brought plans to this battlestation you’ve told us about—”

“No, I mean the young man with the white tunic,” Thrawn said, interrupting the officer.

The lieutenant blinked in surprise, gazing at the young peasant, trying in vain to see what had drawn the famous grand admiral’s attention. “I don’t know, sir. If you would like, I can check with Command—” the officer stopped in mid-sentence to pull out his trilling comlink. He listened intently, before responding with a curt “Understood,” to whoever was on the other end of the comm channel. He shut the comlink off, and turned again to Thrawn. “The brass wants you in the briefing room,” he said, gesturing toward the temple.

Thrawn nodded, “Lead the way, Lieutenant.”

* * *

“Your intelligence was good, Grand Admiral,” an older man said, as he studied a dizzying array of tactical and strategic displays. He turned away from the multi-colored boards, and Thrawn studied his features quickly. He was a little taller than average, with a quiet, stolid look. His features were distinguished, but lined with age. His hair was beginning to recede as well, but a massive beard distracted attention from his fading hairline.

“The battlestation is indeed functional, Grand Admiral, and there was also a tracking beacon on the _Falcon_ ,” the man said, studying the approaching grand admiral. “Just as you predicted.”

Thrawn nodded. “I would have preferred to have been wrong, General.” He smiled minutely. “I assume that you are General Dodonna.”

“I am,” Dodonna said, extending his hand.

Under normal circumstances Thrawn far outranked Dodonna, but he took the proffered hand. Proper Imperial protocol was a bit hazy on greeting an enemy officer, but Thrawn immediately sensed that Dodonna was an equal.

Thrawn took the older man’s hand. “I have heard of you, General. Your part in the Battle of Trasemene was particularly of interest to me,” he said, releasing Dodonna’s hand.

Dodonna smiled sadly. “Trasemene was a nightmare, Grand Admiral,” he said, “Not what was shown on the holovids.”

Thrawn nodded in understanding. The Battle of Trasemene had been one of the very last battles between the Separatist holdouts and the newly born Empire. The siege of the system had resulted in one of the bloodiest campaigns the Empire had ever engaged in, but the orgy of death and destruction had produced two national heroes: General Jan Dodonna, and Admiral Adar Tallon. Both men had defected after witnessing the unspeakable brutality of the Empire’s war machine.

Thrawn’s eyes flicked to the tactical display for an instant. “May I inquire of the plan of attack, General?” he asked, his burning-red eyes studying the displays as he awaited an answer.

Dodonna’s lips flicked upward. “A bit presumptuous aren’t you?” he asked dryly. “Any sane commander in my position would withdraw.” Thrawn studied Dodonna’s face for an instant, and Dodonna’s expression turned into an open smile. “But yes, Admiral, we will attack.”

Thrawn smiled slightly in return.

“The Council wants an all-out attack,” Dodonna continued. “Every ‘capital ship’ we have, up against their battlestation.” His tone made it clear he did not favor the notion. “Given that you, the most effective commander in the recent history of the galaxy, have fallen into our laps anyway, I’d like your opinion on such an attack,” he said, walking away from the tangle of displays, and towards a room that overlooked the jungle.

“My opinion?” Thrawn asked, walking beside Dodonna. “My opinion is that it will fail,” Thrawn said unflinchingly.

Dodonna nodded slowly while they walked, “Why?” He asked, not out of dismissal or in disagreement.

“This battlestation—the _Death Star_ , as the propagandists insist it be called—has been designed with rather… Potent defenses, shall we say?” Thrawn smiled coldly. “I regret that I had more than a small role in ensuring they were so potent.” Dodonna looked at Thrawn curiously, and Thrawn shrugged slightly. “The Death Star is the dream of Tarkin’s ‘New Navy’, a concept which the Emperor adamantly supports, and which I did not.” He smiled without humor at Dodonna. “Four months ago, when I discovered that the battlestation was under construction, I confronted the Emperor over his support of the Death Star.”

Dodonna’s eyes widened slightly. Confronting the Emperor of the known galaxy over one of his pet projects was not the safest endeavor.

“I fell out of the Emperor’s favor for my infraction,” Thrawn said, calmly skipping past the details of the confrontation. “However, my objections seem to have struck him harder than I’d suspected.” Thrawn’s cold smile turned sour. “The Emperor ordered that the Death Star be armed with enough defensive firepower to destroy two dreadnoughts in open battle. And that would be without even utilizing the main armament.”

Dodonna’s eyes widened slightly at the implications. A dreadnought—a massive, twenty-kilometer long capital ship—was the most powerful type of warship in the universe, and if this station could destroy _two_ …

Thrawn smiled again. “ _That_ , General, is why a frontal attack will fail. It would take half of the Imperial Starfleet to make a frontal assault effective, and I doubt you have that many star destroyers lying around.”

Dodonna nodded. “I never dreamed they could have squeezed so many turbolasers on that thing,” he said, slightly awed.

“What,” Thrawn began, “was _your_ plan of attack?”

Dodonna was still having a hard time conceptualizing a battlestation that powerful. “Um—” He blinked, trying to refocus himself. “A strike-fighter assault, comprised entirely of hyper-capable ships,” he said. “Trying to hit this weakness,” he added, digging a touchpad out and handing it to Thrawn.

Thrawn recognized the battlestation plans immediately as they were displayed on the touchpad screen. He had scoured the entire data file several times in the past, studying every weakness. “The secondary exhaust ports,” he said, nodding. “They are a most definite weakness.” He toggled the touchpad off, and returned it to Dodonna. “The flaw revealed itself to me several months ago.” He smiled. “It was not mentioned during my audience with the Emperor, thankfully.”

Thrawn was silent as he thought for a moment. “It’s a daring plan,” he said. “It very well may succeed, no matter how…unorthodox it might sound on flimsi.”

Dodonna nodded. “I thought you would approve—you were always known for your unorthodox strategies.” He snorted at a memory. “When I was still in the Imperial Army we called you the ‘Rholes Hemlocks of the Seventh.’”

Thrawn gave a very slight smile at the mention of the holovid detective. “I’m afraid the title is mislaid slightly, but it is flattering nonetheless.”

“Perhaps. I’ve recommended my strike-fighter assault to the Council an hour ago, and they’re currently debating it amongst themselves,” Dodonna said. “A few thousand years from now I expect an answer,” he added dryly.

Thrawn laughed lightly. The sound was a bit strange coming from his lips. “I assume you have already authorized the attack.”

“I have,” Dodonna said, laughing as well. “They’ll be furious if it fails, but if it fails…” He shrugged. “They won’t exactly be able to court-martial me.

“Now, Grand Admiral, would you care to assist with our planning?”


	5. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, everybody! It's been gratifying to get so many comments (even if a few were in a language that I needed Google Translate to read,) and I'm glad that I and my co-author have given you some enjoyment. This chapter introduces one of my all-time favorite Star Wars characters, and he'll play a big role in the next chapter, and the rest of the story.  
> Happy reading!

# CHAPTER THREE

 

**Commander Antilles:** “We were just a bunch of scared kids and farmers who should have been busy trying to feed our families—well, the ones who had families at least. But instead we were fighting the biggest war since the Clone Wars.”

**Interviewer:** “Which one were you, Commander?”

**Commander Antilles:** “The former.”

**Interviewer:** “Why did you join the Rebellion, Commander?”

**Commander Antilles:** “…I made a promise.”

—From _The Antilles Interviews  
_with Commander Wedge Antilles, NRN, MIA

 

* * *

  _ **Yavin IV**_ _ **, Outer Rim, 0 BBY**_

Lieutenant Wedge Antilles was shaking. He’d flown in raids, and killed his first man when he was seventeen, but this was different: This was a full-fledged _battle_ he was going to be flying into, and it scared the skrag out of him.

He was still in the briefing room, trying to still his shaking while he listened to General Dodonna and the blue-skinned turncoat lay out the plan of attack.

“We’re going in with three squadrons; Red, Green, and Gold,” Dodonna said. “Intelligence gathered by Princess Leia, and Grand Admiral Thrawn, has revealed a weakness we intend to exploit. Admiral?”

Thrawn stepped toward the large display screens, a pointer in hand, and tapped the end of the pointer on the battlestation diagram. “The Death Star is heavily shielded, and protected by turbolaser batteries, which have enough firepower to successfully challenge two dreadnoughts.

“These rather formidable defenses are designed to protect the main weapon; a superlaser capable of destroying a planet with ease.” Thrawn paused, glancing at the pilots’ faces. His gaze rested on Wedge for an instant before passing on to the straw-haired new pilot.

“However, the power requirements to fire its main armament, or even to power its defenses, are massive—to say the very least—and thermal exhaust from the reactor travels out of these ports,” Thrawn said, waiting for the crudely animated diagram to zoom in, and letting his pointer tap the regularly spaced exhaust openings. “These ports are our targets.

“The main ports are too heavily shielded for proton torpedoes. These secondary ports, however, are lightly shielded, using only ray shields, and a direct hit with a proton torpedo should penetrate their shielding.

“The secondary ports have a straight run to the main reactor, meaning a detonation in the port will cause a chain reaction which will destroy the entire battlestation within minutes. Computer estimates put the complete destruction at two minutes, or so, from successful penetration.”

The diagram zoomed in far enough that the pilots could see the tiny exhaust opening, and they all leaned forward in their seats while they studied the surrounding defenses. One pilot asked how large the port was.

“An excellent question.” Thrawn said, nodding to the pilot, “The secondary exhaust ports are two meters wide.”

The pilots began to murmur, and Thrawn’s eyes narrowed before he held his hand up for silence. “A difficult target, I grant,” he said. “But it _is_ possible.”

There were a few incredulous murmurs, but the straw-haired recruit nodded jerkily. “We used to fry whomp rats with my T-16 back home, they weren’t much bigger than two meters,” he said.

Thrawn nodded at the recruit, and continued on: “It will not be an easy approach, the port is located in the equatorial trench of the battlestation, and is protected by numerous turbolaser batteries and point defense systems.”

* * *

The pilots were gone from the briefing room, and only Thrawn and Dodonna were left.

“Do you think we have a chance?” Dodonna asked. It was a question that had haunted many, many sleepless nights, and, now that the pilots were gone, he could ask the famous grand admiral directly.

Thrawn did not answer immediately. “This battle, or this war, General?”

“Both, I would suppose.”

The Chiss nodded. “There are no certainties in war, General, as you well know,” he said simply. “And I would begin preparations for an evacuation effort—if you have not already.”

Thrawn turned to leave the room, but Dodonna stopped him by saying: “You did not answer my question, Admiral.”

Thrawn was silent again. “I would not be here, General, unless I thought there was a chance for both.”

“Fair enough,” Dodonna said quietly, following the Chiss to the command center.

* * *

**_Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 BBY_ **

The Death Star had been designed with a flaw, Commander William Sheplin determined.

The project for developing the massive battlestation had been one of the largest engineering projects in recent memory, and it was inevitable that a first-generation weapon platform would carry an unseemly number of flaws.

The Imperial Department of Military Research had designed the behemoth—or so they claimed—and the rush to make the superweapon operational was clear in every facet of its construction, and especially in the thermal vents.

The sheer thickness of the armor and strength of the shielding would make it an imposing target for any fleet, but it was already clear to Sheplin that the thermal exhaust vent lines—if damaged—would lead to a catastrophic thermal buildup, leading to a thermal overload in the reaction chambers.

The oversight had never been corrected, thankfully.

Sheplin studied the plans of the Death Star, searching for a vent line within ten minutes walking distance of the bridge, and within a kilometer of the escape pods. There were only two, but that would more than enough.

Grand Admiral Thrawn, the only man in the galaxy who’s opinion he gave a kark about, had entrusted him with this mission personally, and he could not afford to fail.

But he wouldn’t. He was Commander Sheplin, Thrawn’s friend and confidant, and there was nothing he could not do for the Chiss grand admiral, given enough time.

* * *

**_Yavin IV, Outer Rim, 0 BBY_ **

_What am I doing here?_ Wedge thought, as he checked the sensor suite housed in the nose of his X-Wing. Going toe-to-toe with the Imperial Navy wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he’d joined the Alliance.

He frowned. _Well then, why did you join?_ He knew the answer, and it hurt to think about it. _Would you be doing this, Mala?_ He snorted in answer to his own question, the memories of her making him smile. She wouldn’t have hesitated to fly into Halle just for the fun of it.

It wasn’t as if it mattered why he joined, or if he was having second thoughts about the mission; he _had_ joined, and wasn’t going to shirk his duty now. No matter how insane the duty might be.

He closed the panel that sealed the access to the nose-mounted sensors. Most pilots didn’t have an idea how their ships worked, but Wedge could have taken the whole fighter apart and put it back together without an excess of spare parts.

A group of deckhands watched him check his X-Wing. There was a lingering undercurrent of resentment from them, due to the fact that he knew more about the ship than they did.

A few more deckhands, led by an officer, wheeled a ladder up to Wedge’s X-Wing. The officer was a woman, a rare sight in any modern navy. She saw Wedge inspecting the engine mountings, and headed toward him.

“Somethin’ wrong?” the officer asked.

Wedge turned to look at the woman. She was about as tall as he was, the top of her head coming up to his eyes. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back into a braid, to keep it out of the way of her tunic as well. The pips on her collar showed her to be a lieutenant.

“No, Lieutenant,” Wedge responded. “Nothing wrong.”

The lieutenant nodded, uncertain. She was a trained engineer, and she didn’t appreciate flyboys second-guessing her work. “Yes—” she bit off the ‘sir’ she had nearly put at the end, when she noticed that he was a lieutenant too.

Wedge was walking around the hull of the ship, toward the ladder. “Never seen you around before,” he commented, climbing up the ladder.

“I haven’t been around much,” she answered wryly. “That might have something to do with it.”

Wedge glanced at her, halfway up the ladder, then smiled a little. “Just might,” He agreed. “You supervise my ship?” he asked.

“I do since last week,” she said, climbing up the ladder after him, carrying his flight helmet. “Any complaints?”

“No, ma’am,” Wedge said. “The opposite really.” He started strapping himself in.

“Well, thank you.”

She watched him fumble for the straps for an instant, then impatiently brushed his hands aside and started strapping him down herself. She put her boot heel against his shoulder, and tugged down on one of the shoulder straps, cinching him down tight.

He studied her face for an instant, his expression hard to read. “Do you have a name?” he asked.

“I heard you flyboys were smooth talkers, but I never knew you were _that_ smooth,” she said, then smiled and laughed as he blushed a little. “Sure, I’ve got a name, Lieutenant; it’s Thorne. It doesn’t resemble my personality, I promise.” Wedge laughed. “Good hunting, Lieutenant.” Thorne added.

“Thank you, Thorne,” Wedge said as she gave him his flight helmet. He slipped the helmet on and gave her a thumbs up.

She returned the thumbs up, and disappeared from his sight as she climbed back down the ladder.

Wedge toggled the canopy down, and switched his comlink on. “Red Two’s ready to go,” he reported.


	6. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the biggest chapters in the novel, and also the first battle that me and my co-author wrote. We tried to be faithful to A New Hope, but give it a harder sci-fi feel and look than was present in the movie, (which was The Battle of Britain in space, essentially.)

# CHAPTER FOUR

 

Wars are never won in a single battle…but we were naïve enough to think that we could win it with one knockout blow at Yavin.

 

—From _The Dogfighters: Rogue Squadron’s Triumphs_  
by Captain Luke Skywalker, NRN, Retired  
with Tenten E. Reynolds, Military Historian

 

* * *

  _ **Yavin Orbit**_ _ **, Outer Rim, 0 BBY**_

The Death Star flashed into existence as it dropped out of hyperspace.

Grand Moff Tarkin stood in the silent bridge, hands clasped behind his back while a slight smile played at the edge of his lips. Vader’s guess had been accurate to the detail, and Princess Leia had led them right to the Rebels’ hidden base.

He had known this day would come, but he had never suspected that the destruction of the Rebellion would come so quickly, or that it would be so easy.

“If I didn’t know better,” Tarkin began, sneering slightly, “I’d think it was a trap.”

Commander William Sheplin kept his face carefully composed as Tarkin blundered past the truth of the situation. Thrawn had been adamant about keeping Tarkin in the dark for as long as possible.

A staffer approached the duo. “Message from FLEETCOM, Grand Moff,” he said.

Tarkin nodded. “Poorly timed,” he said. “Yet doubtlessly important.” He accepted the touchpad from the staffer.

As Tarkin read, his face went steadily colder, and his grip on the pad hardened to the point of pain.

Tarkin more felt than saw Vader’s approach, and he turned to face the Dark Lord of the Sith. “Thrawn is dead,” he said without preamble, handing the touchpad back to the suddenly-terrified staffer. “Killed in a bombing on Nez Peron, two days ago.” His eyes were harder than pieces of flint. He’d never liked Thrawn, but the alien was as gifted a leader of men as he’d ever seen, and despite Thrawn’s long-standing vendetta against Project Stardust and the New Navy, he had been a dedicated and ruthless member of the New Order.

Vader studied the Grand Moff in silence, sampling the tall grand moff’s emotions, _“The Rebels will pay,”_ his deep baritone synthesizers vocalized finally.

“ _Time to Rebel base is thirty minutes,”_ the Death Star’s commander reported over the intercom, his voice echoing across the silent command deck.

* * *

The myriad X-Wings and Y-Wings slipped through the dark void, light from the distant gas giant Yavin giving their hulls an eerie red glow. They were just barely inside the massive planet’s hyperspace limit, but their low acceleration would take them out of it in a few moments.

“ _Check your intervals,”_ Red Leader said over the comlinks. _“Keep it tight, but be sure you don’t drift into your wingman’s exhaust.”_

Wedge nudged his ship a bit closer to his wingman. Looking at the ship, he saw a helmeted head looking back at him. Wedge gave the pilot a thumbs-up, before returning his attention to his ship’s controls.

“ _Link your tac-nets,”_ Red Leader ordered. _“And standby for hyperspace jump in thirty seconds.”_

R5, his astromech droid, automatically linked the X-Wing computer’s tac-net with Red Leader’s tac-net, a necessary action for coordinating precise hyperspace jumps.

A countdown appeared on one of the instrument display screens in Wedge’s cockpit, and he kept an eye on it as the seconds slipped past.

Wedge’s reflexes weren’t fast enough to launch the ship into hyperspace at the exact right instant, or to take it out a millisecond later, and R5, with his infinitely greater reflexes, would have to handle the hyperspace jump for him.

The countdown hit ten seconds, and Wedge took a deep, calming breath.

The countdown hit zero, and the dark void around Wedge seemed to flash for an instant as he was propelled through hyperspace for a fraction of a second. The Death Star filled his vision the moment he emerged from hyperspace, his ship barely a hundred kilometers from the battlestation’s surface.

“Look at the size of that thing!” Wedge exclaimed, immediately feeling foolish for doing so.

“ _Cut that chatter, Red Two!”_ Red Leader said, _“All ships report in.”_

“ _Red Ten standing by.”_

“ _Red Seven standing by.”_

“ _Red Three standing by.”_

“ _Red Six standing by.”_

“ _Red Nine standing by.”_

“Red Two standing by,” Wedge said.

“ _Red Eleven standing by.”_

“ _Red Five standing by.”_

The moment of panic he’d felt upon first seeing the Death Star was gone, replaced by a surprisingly cold focus which seized control of his mind. The feeling was simultaneously frightening and intoxicating.

“ _Lock your S-Foils in attack position,”_ Red Leader ordered.

Wedge reached down and toggled a switch, then looked over his shoulder to see if the S-Foils were responding. They were, and the electronic motors locked the heat-dissipating S-Foils into a near-X.

“ _Go to point seven accel,”_ Red Leader ordered.

Wedge reached down on his left side, pushing the acceleration control forward slowly. His ship’s engine flares brightened, and his ship lunged forward at seventy percent of what the inertial compensator could handle.

A little later the ships started bucking without warning, and Wedge clung to the control stick to keep the ship oriented right.

“ _We’re passing through their magnetic field! Hold tight!”_

Then, suddenly, they were through the turbulence, their formation only a little more ragged from the rough transition.

“ _Gold Squadron, start your attack run, we’ll destroy the main towers.”_

“ _Roger, Red Leader,”_ Gold Leader responded as his Y-wings dipped toward the surface in an attack formation.

“ _Red squadron, target the towers above the trench, we’ll give Gold some breathing room.”_

* * *

“Amusing,” Grand Moff Tarkin said. “Pathetic as well.”

The large tactical display in front of Tarkin showed a small swarm of red blips—each denoting a Rebel fighter or bomber—dancing above the surface of the Death Star. The Rebels were trying, and failing, to find some weakness in the battlestation’s defenses. The attack was centered around the equatorial region of the massive station.

“They should have given it more thought, and fled while they had the opportunity,” Tarkin said, his voice barely more civil than a sneer.

Commander Sheplin and Lieutenant Commander Werner, the senior officer stationed in the CIC, approached Tarkin and Vader. Tarkin turned to the two Naval officers.

“Grand Moff,” Werner began, “CIC has analyzed the attack, approach, and loadouts of the attacking spacecraft.”

“And?” Tarkin asked, slightly impatient with the interruption.

“CIC has determined that their attack has a small chance of success, Grand Mof,.” Lieutenant Commander Werner said. “Perhaps you should prep your shuttle…”

“Withdraw? In our moment of triumph?” Tarkin demanded. “I think you overestimate their chances!” Tarkin’s eyes flitted to Sheplin. “Your input, Commander?”

Sheplin shook his head, “I do not share CIC’s analysis, sir. Even providing the attacking fighters were armed with the heaviest ordnance possible and were able to penetrate our shielding, they couldn’t possibly penetrate three kilometers of armor.”

“Quite right,” Tarkin said, visibly pleased with the answer.

Werner saluted Tarkin and made his retreat. When neither Tarkin or Vader were looking, he shot Sheplin a withering glare. Sheplin smiled thinly at the junior officer, though his eyes were hard.

Tarkin had been silent for a few more minutes before he spoke again: “Nonetheless; this nuisance is tiring.” He turned to the dark-clad Vader. “Take two wings of fighters and destroy them, Lord Vader.”

“ _As you command.”_

* * *

“ _Wedge, watch those towers!”_ Red Five called out, as emerald bolts of plasma shot past Wedge’s canopy.

Wedge instantly jerked his ship to the side, rolling to offer less of a target to the turbolaser tower. Flipping his ship around a moment later, Wedge turned back toward the tower that had fired on him.

The tower was still spitting out plasma, though it was no longer aimed at him, and Wedge unconsciously smiled viciously. With a small nudge to the control stick, he lined his plasma cannons up with the squat, ugly tower. He squeezed the firing stud on the stick, and four bolts lanced out, turning the tower into an expanding cloud of molten durasteel.

“Took care of it—” Wedge searched for the new recruit’s name, “—Luke.”

A burst of static came through Wedge’s headset, as Gold Leader’s voice squawked: _“It’s getting hot in here, Red Lead!”_

Wedge glanced at the equatorial trench and saw the walls of the trench were flashing green from Imperial plasma bolts.

“ _Understood, Gold Leader,”_ Red Leader said. _“Red Two through Five, pull off from your attacks. Drop down and block for them.”_

Wedge pulled up from the tower he had been accelerating toward, curving gracefully toward the equatorial trench. “Acknowledged, Red Lead,” he said, giving as much power to the engines as he thought safe.

Luke dropped into formation beside him, and for an instant Wedge marveled at Luke’s easy command of his X-Wing. He was better, he knew that instinctively, but Luke was _good_.

Red Three and Four dropped into position beside Wedge and Luke, and Wedge eased a little more acceleration out of his engines. He was running at eighty-five percent of what his compensators could handle, which was three percent past what was considered safe.

The much harder-accelerating X-Wings caught up with Gold Squadron’s Y-Wings quickly, and all four X-Wings dived into the trench ahead of them.

Finding himself the de facto leader of this little flight, Wedge bit out orders: “Double front your shields! Keep heading right at those towers, and hold your fire until we’re within fifty klicks of them.”

Plasma-fire slammed into their shields, buffeting their ships horribly as they fought to keep them going straight. But their maneuver appeared to be keeping the majority of the fire off of the Y-Wings behind them.

Then Red Three’s ship suddenly blossomed into flames as a bolt of plasma cut through his shields. The remains of his ship flew out and splattered his comrades with explosively-driven shrapnel.

Red Four, surprised by Three’s sudden death, and the cloud of shrapnel slamming into his shield, twitched his ship too close to the trench wall, snapping his port S-Foils off. With his thrust suddenly imbalanced, he slammed into the trench wall, dying instantly.

Wedge swore viciously after his two comrades died. “Just you and me, Luke,” he said finally.

The Y-Wings were redlining their compensators to keep right behind the two X-Wings, trying at the same time to overlap their shields as they sped down the trench.

Then the rain of Imperial plasma bolts suddenly stopped.

Wedge blinked in surprise, but used the brief lull to let his shield’s capacitors recharge.

“ _All squadrons, we are receiving a new group of signals. Enemy fighters are approaching your position,”_ a communications officer in the Yavin IV base reported.

“ _Red Lead, copy.”_

“ _Gold Lead copies.”_

“ _Green Leader, copy.”_

“ _We’re running out of time, Wedge,”_ Luke said over the comm after the squadron leaders finished speaking.

Wedge nodded at that last comment. The X-Wing was a good ship, but it couldn’t compete with the entire strike-craft complement of a battlestation this massive. “Agreed,” he said.

In the distance, he saw nearly a hundred TIEs glinting in the starlight, still hundreds of kilometers out, but coming closer by the second.

* * *

Commander Sheplin gave the empty engineering corridors a careful study, holding his breath as he strained to hear footsteps from anyone who could walk in on what he was doing. The only sound he could hear was the soft pulsating from the secondary exhaust vent line a few meters from him.

He carefully turned toward the line, pulling a gas-charge clip for his pistol from his uniform belt. With deft motions, he engaged the firing studs on both sides, wedging the flat clip into the space between two cooling plates on the line.

Gas-charge clips were decidedly non-explosive unless both firing studs were depressed, in which case the clip would begin to ionize the tibanna gas stored within into volatile plasma that could be shaped and shot with magnetic accelerators on a blaster. But if the trigger wasn’t pulled quickly enough—or some fool held both firing studs down for several minutes—the plasma would burn through the containment locks and explode.

Sheplin turned away from the improvised bomb and began a slow walk to the escape pods. There was no reason to run—it would only attract attention. Besides, he had calculated the coming explosion down to the second, and he had time.

* * *

“ _Our compensators have had it,_ _Red Lead, we_ _aren’t going to make it,”_ Gold Leader said, his Y-Wings trailing coolant from over-stressed inertial compensators. _“Tell your pilots to stop blocking for us.”_

“ _Acknowledged, Gold Lead. Red Two and Five, pull away,”_ Red Leader said.

Wedge gritted his teeth at the orders, and stole a glance at the targeting displays. They were only a little over a hundred kilometers out from the nearest secondary exhaust port.

“No copy on that last,” Wedge said finally. “Luke? Put all your power into the engines, I’ll pull out and cover your approach.”

“ _We’re_ _going for it_ _?”_

“Looks like,” Wedge said. For an instant, he thought about telling Luke to not miss, but he guessed Luke was already thinking along those same lines.

“ _What are you doing, Red Two?”_ Red Leader demanded.

“I’m having communications trouble, Red Lead. I don’t seem to be able to do anything but transmit.” Wedge said, ignoring Red Leader’s question. It was the flimsiest of excuses, and wouldn’t save Wedge and Luke from a court-martial if it came down to it. Not that court-martials seemed overly important to him at that second.

Wedge pulled back on his stick and climbed out of the trench smoothly. Distant specks of Imperial fighters glinted in the starlight, asthey accelerated steadily closer.

Two TIE Fighters dove in at Luke, and Wedge dove in after them, redlining his compensator. He wasn’t thinking anymore, just acting. He aimed his ship like he was pointing his finger, and vaporized both Imperial fighters with twin bursts of plasma-fire.

“ _Two-hundred_ _k_ _licks out,”_ Luke said, his voice pitched high with tension.

Wedge wove between emerald plasma bolts, the compensator screaming from the torture he was inflicting on it, as he tried to draw the TIE Fighters away from Luke.

An unlucky fighter overshot him, and Wedge squeezed the trigger on his stick instantly. The fighter’s port wing was cut loose by the bolt, before the ship was enveloped in an explosion.

Plasma shot past Wedge’s cockpit, half of a long burst from a TIE lashing at his shields. Wedge killed his acceleration suddenly, flipping his craft end-for-end in bare seconds. The startled TIE pilot tried to swerve as the X-Wing he had been chasing suddenly started accelerating right at him, and Wedge squeezed the firing stud again. The TIE abruptly blew up, scattering shrapnel in a sphere.

His sudden end-over-end maneuver had caused most of the hard accelerating TIEs to overshoot, but they swung around again, leaning hard into their etheric rudders.

Finding himself free from enemy fire for a moment he thumbed the weapon selector on the control stick, switching it to the upright position. Twin proton torpedoes lanced out as he depressed the firing stud, instantly tracking and accelerating hard at a pair of TIEs.

He didn’t have a chance to see if his torpedoes killed the TIEs, as plasma flew all around his cockpit and more began to slam into his shields. His deflectors were down to thirty percent, and the thought of dying in a few moments when his shields inevitably failed only sharpened his focus.

Suddenly, a great saucer-like ship shot past Wedge’s ship, its ventral turret spitting plasma bolts at the Imperial fighters as it dove into the trench.

Wedge heard a wild yell over his headset, and then a laughing voice: _“Blow this, kid, so we can go home!”_

Below him, Wedge saw two proton torpedoes streak away from Luke’s X-Wing, disappearing down the exhaust shaft…

* * *

_**Yavin IV, Outer Rim, 0 BBY** _

Thrawn’s glowing eyes widened slightly as the tactical repeaters showed Red Two’s torpedoes disappearing at the mouth of the vent.

He had not anticipated this.

* * *

**_Yavin Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 BBY_ **

Tarkin looked around, wondering where Commander Sheplin had run off to. The Commander was a sharp knife in Tarkin’s arsenal, and he imagined that Sheplin would enjoy seeing the final end of the Rebellion. Especially after what the Rebels had done to Thrawn. From all he’d heard, Thrawn and Sheplin’s time together aboard the _Ark Royal_ had built a strong—if unsaid—friendship.

He frowned at Sheplin’s continued absence, but turned to the tactical officer. “You may fire when ready,” he said.

_I’ll give William a recording,_ Tarkin thought icily, as the fourth moon of Yavin became a sliver on the viewscreen, slowly growing larger.

* * *

“I’m not sure you’re authorized to be here, sir…” the security officer said, glancing at Commander William Sheplin suspiciously.

“I’m sure I am, Lieutenant, Grand Admiral Thrawn’s orders,” Sheplin said with a disarming smile, before drawing his DC-17 sidearm in one smooth motion.

The Lieutenant jerked back as the blaster presented itself, before his face contorted in surprise and his hand clawed at his holster flap. Sheplin pulled the trigger, and the Lieutenant dropped to the floor, half his face burned away. Sheplin holstered his pistol with care.

_Such a waste_ _,_ Sheplin thought regretfully. But it didn’t matter how the security officer died, for he would have died when Sheplin’s improvised bomb exploded and destroyed the entire battlestation.

He climbed into the escape pod the security officer had been guarding, strapping himself into the pilot’s crash acceleration seat.

He hadn’t been in an escape pod since his Academy days, nearly fifteen years ago. He let his Academy training guide his movements, and he quickly gave the avionics and comm systems a visual check.

He checked his chrono quickly and found he had another twenty-four seconds before the gas-charge clip exploded. He hit the launch stud and was immediately slammed back into his seat from the acceleration that bled through the inertial compensators.

As the acceleration lowered a little, he checked the chrono again, ten seconds—

The shockwaves from the Death Star’s death throes slammed into his unshielded escape pod, hurtling it away from the point of detonation. Sheplin was pinned back into his seat from the sudden acceleration that bled through the compensators. As the pod shuddered and shook, a piece of equipment broke off of the control board, knocking him unconscious as it slammed into his skull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me and my co-author decided that a man as ruthlessly efficient and calculating as Thrawn, (our version of Thrawn, at least,) wouldn't risk his fortunes on a wild, go-lucky, one-in-a-million chance of succeeding battleplan...not without some sort of a clincher. Thus, Sheplin's role in the battle.


	7. Chapter Five

# CHAPTER FIVE

 

They say that nothing, except a battle lost, can be half so melancholy as a battle won. I don’t know if I agree with that, and I know for a fact that propagandists don’t.

—From _An Old Soldier  
_ by General Jan Dodonna, NRA, KIA

 

* * *

 

**_Yavin Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_ **

The search and rescue shuttleaccelerated cautiously through the remnantsof the Death Star. The shuttle’s low relative velocity and cautious acceleration gave the crew time to carefully scanfor ejected Alliance pilots.

The shuttle pilot had dreamed of flying multi-million credit fighters when he’d been shipped off to Officer Candidate School. But the Alliance Navy was no stranger to would-be hotshot pilots, and maintained a policy of ensuring that every fighter pilot—with exceptions—was stuck behind the controls of a shuttle for a few months. It gave them respect for their machines, the official line went, but it was more of a way to let them cool their heels before they were trusted with the truly expensive ships.

The pilot of the shuttle might have been a would-be hotshot, but his electronics warfare officer was a seasoned spacer, and between the two of them they managed to get the job done.

“Got a signal,” the EWO said over his comlink.

“ _What’ve you got?”_ the pilot asked over the same channel.

“Single emitter, high waveband.” The EWO listened to the staticky signal a few more moments. “Doesn’t seem Alliance.”

The pilot looked like he was nodding. _“Feed the range and bearing up here, then get Tal suited up.”_

* * *

Commander William Sheplin blinked as he returned to consciousness. He tried moving, then grunted from the sudden throbbing pain that stabbed through his skull.

The side of his head felt like it was covered in dried paper mache, and he very cautiously moved his hand up to it. He winced at his touch, and the pain it brought, but continued to probe the crusted blood. He might have a concussion, he thought detachedly.

He realized that he was in free fall, and carefully unstrapped himself from the crash seat. The pod seemed intact, but he wasn’t ready to trust his judgment until he knew just how bad he had been hit in the head.

He found the survival gear, and dug out a powered-down touchpad, using the screen as a mirror.

The right side of his head was covered in blood, as he’d expected, and he saw a deep gouge where whatever had hit him had cut into his skin above the ear.

He set the touchpad aside, then dug into the survival pack again, looking for a bacta patch this time. He couldn’t find any, and without the near-miraculous healing effects of bacta, the gouge would probably scar. That didn’t matter, he supposed. He’d never been handsome anyway, and one more scar wouldn’t bother him.

He flinched as the shuttle suddenly vibrated, making his head swim from the sound. Two more vibrations followed, and Sheplin recognized it as one of the universal signals used by all spacers. Merchant and military spacers had long since adopted a system of communicating with ships without any comm systems intact, and the three knocks were meant to warn him that whoever was outside planned on opening the airlock.

He raised his fist to the hatch and slammed the side of his hand against the durasteel twice to let the SAR team outside know that he was alive, but that he wasn’t suited.

He pushed off from the hatch, and swam through free-fall to where the vacuum suits were stored. He hadn’t been in a vacuum suit since the Academy, but very little had changed in fifteen years, and it was only three minutes until he was fully suited.

He pounded against the hatch again, three times this time. Moments later, the hatch swung open.

The atmosphere of the pod streamed out of the opened hatch, and a vac-suited figure leveled a carbine at Sheplin. The Imperial Navy commander was careful to raise his hands slowly.

* * *

**_Yavin IV, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_ **

Five figures stood before Princess Leia; three Humans, and two aliens. A sizable portion of the Navy’s spacers and Marines stood in neat rows behind the five men, a display for the Alliance’s propagandists.

Thrawn considered the entire display needlessly frivolous, but a considerable effort on Dodonna’s part had been used to convince him to attend, though he would be cut from any propaganda holovids they recorded.

He stood to the far left of the assembled ‘heroes,’ resplendent in his white uniform as he stood rigidly at attention. The gold braid on his shoulders and multi-colored rank plaque marked him as distinctly different from his peers, and lent the proceedings a regal air it might have otherwise lacked.

How they were going to keep his defection a secret was a mystery to Thrawn, but the Alliance counter-intelligence operatives were some of the best in the galaxy.

To the right of the grand admiral stood another former Imperial officer; a disheveled smuggler who went by the name of Han Solo. He was the only one of the heroes who seemed genuinely happy to be here.

To Han’s right was his co-pilot during the attack; a massive brown-haired Wookie who had a bandoleer thrown over his chest. The Wookie towered over them all, and he seemed perfectly content to do so.

The straw-haired Luke Skywalker, who had made the incredible shot, stood to the right of the Wookie, seeming a little overwhelmed by the entire ceremony.

And then at the very right of the group, Wedge Antilles stood.

He was in a dress uniform of sorts. The Alliance had not yet adopted a dress uniform—or even a standardized service uniform. And as such, he was clad in a silky white shirt with a leather jacket buttoned up over it. The jacket carried the hastily sewn-on emblem of the Alliance. His stained orange flight pants were the only detriment to his overall appearance, but no one pointed it out.

The shirt and jacket were not his, obviously, but had been loaned to him by various fellow officers and pilots. The jacket had been loaned to him by Han Solo, who had waved away any questions about its acquisition, and the silken shirt had been loaned to him by his squadron leader, Garven Dreis.

Sweeping strains of the Marine orchestra—such as it was—filled the vast room, and Princess Leia began bestowing medals upon the five of them. When she draped Wedge’s medal around his neck, he blushed a little at her glance, then laughed inwardly at himself. He’d seen her only a handful of times, and every time at a distance.

The five men turned to face the sea of faces who had begun clapping. Han and Luke smiled, and then the Wookie roared his own approval of the affair. Thrawn studied the crowd passively with his glowing eyes, holding his white-gloved hands at his side, and Wedge just waited for it to end.

* * *

Thrawn retreated from the ceremony as quickly as a dignified walk could take him, stripping his white gloves off as he walked.

He noted footsteps behind him, but kept walking toward his assigned quarters.

“Grand Admiral Thrawn,” a quiet feminine voice said from behind him.

Thrawn halted his walk and turned to study the speaker. He recognized the Chandrilan senator from public holovids of the Imperial Senate, though he would have expected Senator Mon Mothma to breathe fire from all the bad press she was given by the state-run newsfeeds.

“Senator,” Thrawn said simply.

She smiled gravely at his use of her title. “I’m afraid my membership in the Senate has been revoked.”

“Hardly surprising, considering…recent events,” Thrawn said to the de facto leader of the Alliance.

“True,” she acknowledged. “I wish to congratulate you personally for the attack, Admiral. General Dodonna informed me that your input was decisive in our victory.”

Thrawn nodded thoughtfully at her comment. “Thank you, Senator, but it was Dodonna who plotted the original attack. I merely added embellishment to a well-designed plan,” he said.

She smiled again at his use of her title, as well as his modesty, then eyed his uniform thoughtfully, especially the Imperial rank plaque and the gold braid. “I will send a request to Supply to send a uniform to you,” she said. “One of the few unofficial ones we have, I should say.” A ‘request’ from Mothma would doubtlessly be heeded as an order.

Thrawn shook his head. “Thoughtful,” he said, making a dismissive gesture. “But hardly necessary, Senator. Evacuation plans must take precedence.”

“Evacuation?”

Thrawn’s dark eyebrows narrowed down over his glowing eyes. “Tarkin was a blundering fool. He could have dropped out of hyperspace with a dreadnought and support ships and killed us all. There’s nothing to keep his successor from doing just that,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Mon Mothma smiled a little. “The political pressure would be too enormous to allow anyone to make such a hasty move,” she said. “Should they fail again, the blow to their prestige would be incalculable.”

Thrawn had any number of excellent responses, all of them perfectly valid in Navy circles, but he remained silent, studying her face and the tiny details it unveiled. “Your political experience is far in excess of mine,” he said finally, tactfully withdrawing.

Mothma noted the verbal withdrawal, but simply smiled gracefully and retreated back to the remnants of the ceremony.

Thrawn watched her as she walked away, carefully considering his next actions.


	8. Chapter Six

# CHAPTER SIX

 

The Alliance’s politics were a cancer. Career officers and soldiers with common-sense fought the disease with all their strength, and if they had not, the Alliance may well have fractured.

—From  _0 BBY-0 ABY: Yavin to Hoth  
_by Tenten E. Reynolds, Military Historian

 

* * *

  _ **Yavin IV**_ _ **, Outer Rim, 0 ABY**_

The Command Council meeting had devolved into a chaotic mix of partisan politics as soon as it was convened, with two groups emerging out of the first few minutes of chaos: Those who wanted to press further attacks against the Empire, and those who wanted to send a list of demands to the Empire, backed by the threat that they could repeat the Battle of Yavin as many times as they wanted.

Thrawn sat passively through the maelstrom of politics, studying both groups and their respective spokesmen. He was not a flag officer in the Alliance Navy—though he held no doubts that he would be at a point in the near future—and thus could not vote in the Council. He would have to see about upping the pressure to have himself commissioned as an officer.

The group in the Council supporting further attacks was led by General Dodonna, though his sway over the internal politics of the Alliance appeared to have been severely hampered by authorizing the attack against the Death Star without waiting for the Council’s permission.

The group in favor of trying to leverage the Battle of Yavin—as it was coming to be known—to force the Empire to accede their legitimacy, was headed by General Vernan, who was Mothma’s Chief of Intelligence.

The few Mon Calamari present were the only other members of the meeting keeping silent beside Thrawn, and they listened to every speaker with rapt attention. The Mon Calamari seemed to be grouped behind an old commodore by the name of Gial Ackbar.

It never failed to surprise Thrawn that sentient creatures would willingly gather behind one figurehead, and follow whoever they put above them with—if not blindness—nearsightedness.

Despite the petty partisan squabbling, the room was filled with a pervasive feeling of victory, and every man seemed convinced that complete and final victory lay just around the corner. Thrawn was not convinced, though.

He knew that the Empire, humiliated by their first true military disaster, would spare no expense in destroying this band of Rebels. Up until this point, the Alliance had only been a minor threat to the Empire, not even taken all that seriously in many Navy circles. But the destruction of the Death Star would put them at the head of the long list of rebel groups slated for execution.

Thrawn returned his full attention to the debate taking place.

Dodonna and Vernan would have been at the edge of blows had they not been separated by a table, but they seemed to have settled for verbally bashing each other with every word they could weaponize instead.

Mothma let the verbal sparring continue for a few more moments, before cracking her gavel and ordering both men to be seated.

The sudden end to the battle of words between Dodonna and Vernan left the Command Council silent, as each side of the debate glared at the other.

Thrawn rose from his seat, silently waiting to be recognized. Mon Mothma gestured to him. “The Grand Admiral has the floor.”

“Thank you, Senator,” Thrawn said. “I wish to bring to the attention of the members of this council the fact that the Empire is still undefeated,” Thrawn began, deciding bluntness was preferable to verbal gymnastics, “and is still more than capable of destroying this base.”

A few members of the Council stirred angrily. “I believe we are aware of how undefeated the Empire is, Grand Admiral,” Dodonna said, unfazed by Thrawn’s bluntness.

“Are you?” Thrawn’s eyes swept across the members of the Command Council. Dodonna leaned back, listening carefully. “Tarkin and his pet project have been defeated, granted, but the Emperor will never let this insult pass. A single battlestation was a drop in the sea compared to the full strength of the Imperial Navy, and the fact that Tarkin refused to consider assistance from the Navy only speaks to the arrogance of the man. The Navy will jump at the opportunity to humiliate Tarkin’s New Navy—by destroying us in short order.”

General Vernan sighed. “The political pressure—”

“Has nothing to do with the Navy,” Thrawn cut him off. “The Imperial Navy does not operate by your assumptions of external politics. The game of politics is played, to be sure, but it is _internal_ politics. The only conceivable debate that could slow the deployment of a battlegroup against us, is the argument of who will recieve the honor of commanding it.”

Wary eyes studied Thrawn, but Dodonna nodded. “I don’t know much about the Imperial Navy—I was Army,” He said. “But if the internal politics operates anything like the Army’s then the Grand Admiral is right; they will jump at the opportunity to humiliate Tarkin.”

Thrawn nodded. “One way or another, the Imperial Navy will be here,” he said. “And you must choose whether you wish to stay and meet it in battle, or flee before they arrive.”

The Councilmen murmured among themselves, before one Twi’lek Marine Colonel spoke up: “Let the dotkohu come,” he said. “We might surprise you ‘Grand _’_ Admiral.”

* * *

Thrawn turned to the Marine guard who stood outside the spartan holding cell. “Leave us,” he ordered.

The guard wouldn’t have moved for anything short of a krayt dragon, but Thrawn had been issued epsilon-level clearance, and now had access to any Imperial POW, provided they were below flag rank.

“Aye, sir,” the guard answered, letting Thrawn pass before locking the cell behind the grand admiral.

The cell door clicked shut, and Thrawn smiled lightly at the man in the cell.

Commander Sheplin stood from his bunk, saluting.

William Sheplin had been a lieutenant aboard the _Ark Royal_ when the command of the _Victory_ -class star destroyer had been given to the then-captain Thrawn. He’d been a snottie, to use the Navy’s term, but the green lieutenant had turned into a full commander over the years, and Sheplin was now an experienced warrior with a penetrating mind.

Sheplin was a tall man, nearly half a head taller than Thrawn, but his gangling frame was hidden by a well-tailored uniform. His head was bandaged, and Thrawn could see the raw edges of a wound running from his hairline down to his jaw. Sheplin held his salute, while his sapphire eyes studied Thrawn’s expression, waiting patiently for the Grand Admiral’s response.

Thrawn returned the salute. “I would assume you’ve succeeded,” he said, dropping his salute.

“I did, sir,” Sheplin said a bit stiffly, his hands now resting behind his back. “And, sir, I feel I need to stress the need for constant communication in clandestine operations.”

Thrawn nodded, a slight smile on his lips. “An accident, Commander,” he said apologetically. “The Rebels were far more competent than I had prepared for.”

Sheplin raised an eyebrow, and when he spoke again his voice was much calmer. “They _hit_ it, sir?”

“Miraculously, yes.”

Sheplin snorted. “Miracle, skrag,” he said crudely.

Thrawn smiled, then gestured toward Sheplin’s bandaged head. “Is that serious, Commander?”

“No, thankfully,” Sheplin said. “It knocked me cold, but it didn’t seem to kill me.”

“So I see.”

Sheplin clicked his teeth together. “You can see how my side went, sir, how did your side go?”

“Less painfully,” Thrawn answered, smiling at the tall man. “The Rebels appear perfectly willing to trust me for the time. They also have no intention of broadcasting my survival of the ‘bombing’ to the galaxy, which is rather thoughtful.”

Sheplin nodded. “At least that went the way you anticipated, sir,” he said.

Thrawn laughed at the Commander’s continued grouchiness. “Do cheer up, Commander, it could have gone far worse.”

Sheplin snorted. “True,” he admitted, a smile slowly appearing at the sight of Thrawn laughing. He was one of the few men in the galaxy who had seen beneath the cold mask Thrawn chose to wear, and he could have shocked anyone by informing them Thrawn had a sense of humor.

“I am still technically a prisoner,” Thrawn informed him. “But they have allowed me to sit in on the Command Council, and I believe they will offer me a commission in the near future.”

“And me?”

“A commission, providing I can convince the Command Council to pardon you.”

“And if you can’t?”

Thrawn smiled. “They won’t shoot you, Commander, I will see to that much at least.”

* * *

The great Massassi temple was a hive of activity as the evacuation started.

The Command Council, for all of its bluster and pomp, had authorized the evacuation effort without delay.

Thrawn would have been greatly surprised if the Council had deigned to meet the Imperial Navy in open battle, as a blind fool could realize that the ‘trick’ that had won the Battle of Yavin would not work against a competent commander. And the Imperial Navy was unlikely to embarrass itself by sending anyone but the most capable officer to destroy the Rebels.

Commander Sheplin stood beside Thrawn as the former grand admiral watched the soldiers pack the entire base away. Sheplin was still a prisoner, but Thrawn had arranged that he be given the same latitude as Thrawn was being given.

“I suppose they will want us to be loading up as well,” Thrawn commented.

“Yes, sir, there was a note to that effect,” Sheplin said. He was already acting as Thrawn’s de facto aide, having muscled the official aide the Command Council had assigned Thrawn aside. “Senator Mothma also requested to see you, sir.”

“The Senator?” Thrawn asked rhetorically.

“Yes, sir. I believe she is on the command level.”

Thrawn nodded, walking slowly through the bustle as he began making his way to the lift.

“I’m shocked they didn’t start the evacuation the minute Tarkin dropped out of hyperspace, sir,” Sheplin commented, as he walked beside Thrawn.

“As am I, Commander. But the Command Council could not reach a consensus on the issue at that moment.”

“Sir?”

Thrawn smiled without any humor. “The Council has this naïve distrust of authoritarianism, especially where the military is concerned.”

Sheplin blinked. “I didn’t know it was that bad,” he said quietly.

Thrawn nodded gravely. “It is.”

“It’s insane,” Sheplin said, his voice still quiet. “Democracy is all well and good for civvies, sir, but…”

“I know, Commander,” Thrawn said, cutting him off gently. He’d already been through this with Dodonna, and had found his opinion was quietly mirrored by much of the Alliance’s armed forces.

A flatbed wagon filled with explosive munitions rolled past, towed by a shuddering tractor that had been ancient when the Clone Wars were in full swing. Sheplin eyed the munitions with a critical eye, observing the antiquated gas-charge clips and thermite-tipped SAM missiles stacked in neat rows. Eventually, he found himself nodding slightly. The weapons may be antiquated, but they were still effective.

They rode the lift up five floors to the command level, and the doors of the lift opened to reveal myriad bustling techs.

The techs were ripping consoles out, downloading the information stored on them to portable computers as they did so. A few computers—the planetary sensor arrays, communications network, and flight control systems—would have to remain operational until the last shuttle evacuated, making the techs’ job a bit harder.

Dodonna was hunched over a tactical plot, working on maneuvers that might buy them a few more hours of time should the Imperials come to pay them a visit before they were evacuated. He glanced up at the sound of the lift, and nodded to Thrawn, before gesturing toward a door. “The Senator is waiting for you, Grand Admiral,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Mothma was sitting in a simplistic, albeit abstract-looking, chair. She was looking out at the open jungle with a small frown. The weight of the universe was on her shoulders, it seemed. Even though her power was limited by the Command Council, victories and defeats would still be laid at her feet, as if she were responsible for them. It was not a role that Thrawn or Sheplin envied.

She turned in her chair when the door opened, and her frown abruptly vanished as she saw Thrawn and Sheplin, replaced by a placid politician’s smile.

She stood and smiled wryly at the duo’s Imperial uniforms, the politician’s smile disappearing for a moment. “Good day, Grand Admiral.” Her eyes flicked to Sheplin. “Whom might you be, sir?”

“Commander William Sheplin, ma’am,” Sheplin answered, bowing slightly.

“A pleasure to meet you, Commander,” Mothma said, smiling at his Core World manners.

Thrawn matched Sheplin’s bow. “You wished to see me, Senator?”

“Yes,” she said, her smile changing imperceptibly. “The Command Council—advised by General Dodonna—has determined you are an immense military asset to the Alliance.”

Sheplin snorted inwardly, making sure to stop himself from doing so audibly. _Took them long enough,_ he thought.

“The Command Council has authorized me to offer you a commission,” she said, reaching down to the arm of her chair, and delicately grabbing one of many sheets of flimsi.

Thrawn accepted the sheet from her, and read the sheet in a glance.

“Welcome to the Alliance, Admiral,” Mothma said.

The newly-commissioned admiral smiled in return.


	9. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, folks.  
> I didn't post a chapter yesterday, since it was Easter Sunday, and I was in another state, visiting friends. But, now that I'm back, we'll be getting back to a regular schedule. I'll post two today, just to make up for yesterday's absence.

# CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 **Interviewer:** “Do you have any thoughts about why Rogue Squadron is so effective, Commander?”

 **Commander Antilles:** “…I suppose I do. We’re the natural extension of Admiral Thrawn’s Stateless Strategy. We allow him to strike wherever he pleases—and strike hard, at that—without jeopardizing our capital ships to a fleet engagement.”

 **Interviewer:** “That’s well and fine, Commander, but your kill tally is without peer—how do you do it?”

 **Commander Antilles:** “…Our kill tally’s high, but our losses are too.”

—From _The Antilles Interviews  
_with Commander Wedge Antilles, NRN, MIA

 

* * *

  _ **Deep Space**_ _ **, Outer Rim, 0 ABY**_

Wedge had lived most of his life in space, but the sudden return to the cold and cramped ship’s quarters, after having lived for months in his equally cold, but very expansive, quarters on Yavin IV, had taken some getting used to.

In theory, officers warranted private quarters. However, in practice, Wedge was sleeping with his squadron-mates snoring around him.

His hammock was the lowest one, and he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. He couldn’t fall as far, sure, but someone else could fall on _him_. Thus far it hadn’t happened, but it still occupied his thoughts.

He woke up right before the ship’s third watch retired, and he lay awake in the darkness, feeling the soft vibrations from the hyperdrive come through the hammock’s lines.

He was thinking about Mala.

He’d given up hope a long time ago that she might still be alive, but lacked the courage to look through the casualty reports from the Imperial glassing of Gus Talon. He’d read somewhere, a long time ago, that uncertainty was what kept many people going through a tragedy, and he wasn’t sure how he would react if he knew for a fact that Mala was dead.

 _Droyk the Empire,_ he thought, swearing in mentally in Old Corellian, the language of his childhood. _A thousand droyks._ If she had lived, if the Empire hadn’t glassed Gus Talon…

He shook his head, closing his eyes against tears. The ifs would drive him out of his mind if he kept doing this. She was gone, and there was nothing to do…except remember the sweet, intimate memories she’d left with him.

He didn’t know how long he laid in the darkness like that, dreaming of Mala, but it seemed like several eternities rolled into one.

Suddenly the lights flipped on, and he rolled out of his bunk instinctively, his memories of every snap inspection he’d been subjected to during basic training and OCS taking command of his body.

He was not the only one, and what was left of the squadron came to attention as they lined up beside their makeshift hammocks.

Garven Dreis, the commander of Red Squadron, was standing in the hatchway, hand still on the light switch. The sudden flurry of action made him nod, but the action was subdued.

“I’ve got news,” Dreis said, his voice cutting through the soft stirs of the pilots. “In light of our recent casualties, Command has decided to deactivate Red Squadron.” His words were delivered with gruff bluntness. If he’d said it any other way, he would have choked on the words. Red Squadron had been his family.

There were several surprised stares at the blunt words, and more than a few blinks shared between the pilots.

“I’ve been issued new orders, and I’ve got new orders for every one of you,” he said. “But before I hand them out, I’d just like to say how much of an honor it has been to command you lot.” Dreis stopped speaking for an instant, swallowing before continuing, “You’re the finest bunch of pilots, and the sorriest bunch of liars, I’ve ever seen.”

It wasn’t much of a speech, but Dreis had never been good with words, and his pilots understood what he’d tried to say. He took out a sheaf of flimsi and began handing one set of orders to every pilot. He paused before stepping out of the hatchway, giving the pilots one parting glance, then stepped out of their lives.

Someone swore as he studied his orders, “I’ve been assigned to Blue Squadron. Those karking bus-drivers—”

Wedge ignored the man and glanced at his new orders. They were short and to the point:

* * *

 ALLIANCE NAVAL COMMAND

A.N.S. _Starlight_ , Deck 8

5/4/36 

SPECIAL ORDERS:

NUMBER 17920: 

٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭

Lt Antilles, Wedge 0-459967, CP, Alliance Starfighter Corps, is relieved from CO ‘‘Red Squadron’’ 62nd VFA Squadron. Lt Antilles is directed to proceed to deck 11, A.N.S. _Starlight_ , forward cargo hold, upon receipt of orders.

٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭ 

BY COMMAND OF THE OFFICE OF ALLIANCE NAVAL OPERATIONS

OFFICIAL:

William Sheplin,

Commander, Alliance Navy

Acting Adjutant

* * *

 

* * *

Wedge worked the hatch that led to the cargo hold, before opening it and stepping into the expansive compartment.

The cargo hold was brightly lit, and the blue-skinned Imperial traitor, who had briefed the pilots on Yavin IV, stood in the center of it.

Thrawn still retained his white tunic, eschewing the standard—if unofficial—Alliance officer’s tunic. The gold braid that had been on his shoulders was gone, and his collar sported two Alliance pips. Pips of a full admiral.

Thrawn turned to look at Wedge. “Punctual,” he commented. “And you are the one I wished to see first as well, Lieutenant.”

Wedge saluted stiffly, upon coming nearly face-to-face with a full admiral. “Aye, sir.”

Thrawn returned the salute. “I have taken it upon myself to organize a new strike squadron, Lieutenant, which shall report directly to me or my office, and not be attached to a carrier air group.”

Wedge nodded, still at attention—when an admiral was speaking, you shut up and listened.

“This squadron will be detached on extended operational sorties, several days in length, in order to strike distant or high-risk targets,” Thrawn said. “And you will lead it.”

The last five words came as a shock to Wedge. “Thank you, sir. I’m honored,” he managed to get out.

“A lieutenant is not fit to command an entire squadron, so this is in order as well.” Thrawn slipped a hand into a pocket in his uniform, and withdrew a set of pips.

Wedge accepted them as Thrawn handed them to him, and, upon closer inspection, he realized they were the pips for a full commander.

“Thank you, sir,” Wedge said finally, knowing full-well that very few spacers had ever skipped a rank as he was being allowed to do.

Thrawn nodded gravely. “It will be official by tomorrow,” he said, referring to Wedge’s promotion. “You will need an executive officer as well,” he added. “And—”

The hatch opened, and Lieutenant Luke Skywalker stepped into the hold.

“Ah,” Thrawn said. “Right on cue.”

* * *

Thrawn rested his head againsta gloved hand, adopting his familiarposture of thoughtfulness.

The Command Council meeting was less chaotic than the one on Yavin IV had been, but that was only because there was no room to be chaotic in. Thrawn had been inducted into the Council warily, and he had been surprised to discover that the voting members of the Council were made up of every flag officer in the entire Alliance, and that the quorum required to do business was _large_.

The entire Command Council and their aides were crammed into a small cabin in the lead ship of the flotilla, the _Starlight_ , as they debated the question of supplies and ordnance:

“—I want to make this perfectly clear,” General Trantor, the de facto commander of the entire Alliance Army, said firmly. “Without an across-the-board increase of my troops’ supply of arms and supplies, we won’t be able to maintain _any_ significant presence on a planet. My troops are currently using weapons older than I am, and gas-charge clips from the _Clone Wars._ ”

“Thank you General, your concerns have already been noted,” Senator Mon Mothma said.

“With respect Senator, they have not ‘already’ been rectified,” The General said, sitting stiffly.

“We can not redirect munitions or supplies from the Marines,” General Yanak said quickly, hoping to stop any such suggestion before it could be made. “Our equipment is as basic as the Army’s is, and we had to reduce the size of on-ship Marine compliments down to six dozen to conserve supplies just last month. My Corps is down to eight regiments.”

Both Generals turned to look at the much larger, and better funded, Navy personnel.

“Supplies can be taken from the cruisers, but we have neither the small arms you require or a mythical horde of rations,” Admiral Trace said slowly.

“I believe,” Thrawn said. “That I have a solution to our supply problems.”

Eyes turned to study the Chiss admiral.

“There is a system in the Outer Rim known as Kol Huro, a pre-Clone Wars foundry system. If we could seize this system, even if only for a short time, we will be able to restock our supply of small and large arms.”

“This system is unoccupied?” Trace asked.

“There is no Imperial presence, if that is what you mean, but scavengers are undoubtedly present. The majority of the mineral wealth and machinery required should still remain untouched,” Thrawn answered.

“I’ve never heard of Kol Huro,” General Trantor said, his voice slightly suspicious.

“There is no mention of the system in the Imperial Archives,” Thrawn answered. “It was only rediscovered when a navicomputer failure led a transport pilot to the planet, however, the mission was secretive, and thus any mention of the system was redacted.” He smiled slightly. “I did the redacting.”

“But you know where it is?” Commodore Ackbar demanded.

“I do,” Thrawn said. “I will require six transports and a cruiser with escorts. A detachment of ground personnel will be needed as well—to work the machinery.”

Trace nodded even before Mothma or the Command Council could give their blessing. “You can have the _Tranquil Dawn_ and her escorts, Admiral. I’m sure we can scrounge up six transports as well,” Trace said.

General Trantor, quick to realize that this was the opportunity to get more ordnance for his troops, spoke up: “I can give you four regiments to work on the surface, is that sufficient?”

“Very,” Thrawn answered.

“The expedition to Kol Huro is put before the floor.”


	10. Chapter Eight

# CHAPTER EIGHT

 

How much had been coincidence, and how much had been cold-blooded calculation I was never able to discern. Both were, to some degree, involved, I am sure.

—From _Thrawn  
_by Admiral William J. Sheplin, NRN, Retired

 

* * *

 

**_Kol Huro Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_ **

The _Tranquil Dawn_ did not live up to its name. The _Nebulon-B_ -class frigate was among the very first of the production models of the _B_ -class refit to roll off the Kaut Yard’s production lines. Once, she had been sleek and graceful; a huntress of unwary starfighters. Now her once-graceful lines had been replaced by rough, garish patches of durasteel armor, and the lighter gun mounts now sported turbolasers. She was a cruiser in all but name.

The star-streaked patterns of hyperspace flashed past the _Tranquil Dawn_ and her four escorts as they sped along. Behind the five warships, six empty transports followed.

The bridge of the _Tranquil Dawn_ shuddered slightly as the small flotilla smeared back into normal space.

“Squadron standing down from condition three, Captain,” a staffer reported, as the _Tranquil Dawn_ and her escorts emerged from hyperspace.

“Very well, signal escorts to begin a complete sweep of the system, any scavengers are to be detained if possible,” Captain Dawes ordered, the orders having been given to him four hours prior by Admiral Thrawn.

“Aye, sir.”

Admiral Thrawn sat in the hastily-added flag officer’s chair, watching the well-drilled crew carry out the Captain’s orders. Sheplin stood calmly at his admiral’s left, the bandage gone from his head, and a long scar visible where the hair had been shaved off to allow access to his wound.

Captain Dawes approached the duo after personally checking a sensor readout. “Sensor readings indicate seven planets in the system, massive concentrations of metallic compounds on every planet. The echuta in their atmospheres is mucking up our readings, though, so I can’t give you anything more detailed, sir,” he said.

“I understand, Captain, try to clean up the readings if you can,” Thrawn responded.

* * *

Wedge Antilles pulled on his flight suit, one leg at a time. It was worn and stained, but it still held pressure, and that was all that truly mattered to him.

He was alone in the pilot’s dressing room, as the rest of the squadron was already out in the briefing room, swapping lies and waiting for him to brief them.

He took a deep breath, stilling his nerves. This would be the first time flying—outside of four brief training exercises—as Rogue Squadron’s commander. Many of the squadron members were former Red Squadron fliers, including Luke Skywalker and Biggs Darklighter, so at least he wouldn’t be among strangers. But would that have been better?

He didn’t know, and his lack of experience gave him a new-found respect for Garven Dreis, the commander of the deactivated Red Squadron.

Tucking his helmet under his arm, and straightening his spine at the same time, he made his way to the briefing room.

* * *

Commander Sheplin was stooped over a plot table, studying the orbits of the planets around Kol Huro. “Amazing,” he said softly to himself.

He felt Thrawn’s presence beside him. “Commander?” Thrawn invited.

“Pardon me, sir. I was studying the orbits.”

“And?”

Sheplin wet his lips. “They’re too perfect, sir,” he said. He ran a finger over the plot, tracing the lines denoting orbits. “Kol Huro Seven is exactly five times further from the primary than Kol Huro Four, and I mean _exactly_ , sir.” He straightened. “Every planet is orbiting at corresponding distances relative to their neighbors. It’s impossibly perfect, sir.”

“Is it natural?” Thrawn asked, his interest piqued.

“I haven’t the slightest idea, sir,” Sheplin answered. “I’d say it wasn’t, but stranger, naturally occurring, things have been recorded.”

“Yes, they have,” Thrawn agreed softly. “Intelligent design?”

“Again sir, I don’t know.”

Thrawn gave a small nod. “There are some parts of this galaxy that are simply too _perfect_ , Commander, to have been an accident,” Thrawn said softly.

Sheplin gave his admiral a curious look, but Thrawn remained silent.

“Admiral,” Captain Dawes began, approaching Thrawn, “our escorts have completed their ascribed sweep of the system. They’ve secured seven scavenger ships.”

“None managed to leave the system?” Thrawn asked.

“No, sir,” Dawes answered. “The captains of the escorts believe they were the only ships present in-system.”

“Very well,” Thrawn said. “Send my congratulations to the crew of each escort.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Also.” Thrawn handed a touchpad to Dawes. “Have our escorts drop reconnaissance platforms at these points.”

“Right away sir.”

“Likely hyper-transition points?” Sheplin guessed quietly, after Dawes had left to relay the orders.

“Precisely.”

Sheplin nodded. With such a small force Thrawn could not hope to cover every likely transition point with a warship or starfighter.

“Commander Antilles reports that Rogue Squadron is prepped, and ready for CAP duties,” Dawes reported.

* * *

Wedge climbed the durasteel rungs of the ladder to the opened cockpit of his X-Wing. He set himself down with a sigh, and began strapping himself in.

Footsteps sounded on the rungs, as another person climbed up after him. “Take it easy out there, Commander,” Lieutenant Thorne said. She had been reassigned from the deactivated Red Squadron as well. “Chief Lonzel was doing his best to bite my head off after that last exercise.”

Wedge nodded, as Thorne handed him his flight helmet. During the last exercise, Lieutenant Biggs had had a mid-flight emergency when his ship had begun trailing coolant. The engines were slagged by the time he landed the fighter, but the fact that he managed to land at all had impressed Wedge.

“Will do,” Wedge answered.

Thorne nodded, and gave him a salute. “Good hunting, sir.”

Wedge returned the salute. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Thorne descended the ladder rungs, and Wedge toggled the canopy closed.

A crackle of static came over his headset. “Let’s be about it,” he said into his comlink pickup.

* * *

_**Kol Huro I, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

The Marines rushed out of the transport, and onto the surface of the dusty planet.

They were in light pack, carrying only blasters and ammunition, since they were the screening force for the Army regiments still onboard the transports.

The Marines kept their carbines trained on every possible piece of cover, ready to let loose a torrent of plasma-fire the moment an attack came…

No attack came, and the Army regiments disembarked in files, forming into lines and work detachments as their feet touched the red sand.

“Sweet bkauas, what’s that smell?” a soldier asked from the Army ranks.

“What’s the matter, boot?” a Marine called from the screening lines. “Never been in a thorilide mine?”

“Ch’tra ravri’ihah ch’ahn,” the soldier responded, making an obscene gesture at the Marine.

The Marine grinned, and hoisted his carbine a bit higher as he saw something move…a small, non-sentient creature darted into sight, before disappearing behind a clump of sparse foliage.

“First platoon!” a lieutenant barked. “We’ve been assigned the first work duties. Get the technicians to the front and drop your packs and gear!”

The Army troops unslung their packs and rifles, laying the former in neat rows, and stacking their rifles, before following the swarm of technicians to the nearest mine entrance.

The mine entrance was sealed off with a rusted-out door that wouldn’t budge, which was simply blown off its hinges by an overly enthusiastic Marine demolition specialist.

Soldiers filed into the dark passageways, lighting glowlamps as they descended deeper into the mine.

* * *

_**Kol Huro Orbit, Outer Rim 0 ABY** _

Wedge yawned and blinked. They were just finishing the last hour of their shift on the combat air patrol, and the entire squadron was bone-tired. They’d been in the cockpit for nearly twelve hours.

They’d logged sixteen twelve-hour shifts thus far, and the mindless grind was pushing them to the brink of human endurance.

He checked his chrono—only fifteen minutes remained for this shift.

He keyed the transmit button for the squadron-wide comm-circuit. “Fifteen minutes guys, so stay awake—we don’t need any accidents in the hangers,” he said.

“ _Hard copy on that, Rogue Lead,”_ a tired voice responded.

Wedge yawned again, before slapping his face suddenly, trying to keep himself awake.

“ _Rogue Lead, this is_ Dawn _actual. Wraith Squadron’s launch has been delayed. Please standby on station,”_ the voice of the _Tranquil Dawn_ ’s flight controller said over the squadron channel.

“Acknowledged, _Dawn_ actual. Standing by on station.”

A part of Wedge wanted to swear, but he knew that Wraith squadron was pulling as many hours as Rogue Squadron was.

He checked his instruments, and frowned as he saw the fuel display. Theoretically, an X-Wing had an endurance of a week in deep space, but the need to continually burn the engines to patrol around the flotilla had eaten deep into that endurance, and they had only a bit more than ten percent of their fuel left.

His sensor display flickered suddenly, as a contact dropped out of hyperspace.

“ _Unidentified contact, five-thousand klicks out, dead ahead,”_ Luke Skywalker’s startled voice reported.

“I see it,” Wedge responded, looking at the sensor display. They were under orders to intercept any ships coming out of hyper, and the vectors would be tight, but he might be able to do it. He wouldn’t have any fuel for an extended battle though. He might not even have enough fuel to get into missile range.

“Go to full accel,” Wedge ordered. “Then put your S-Foils in attack position and follow me in.”

The contact was breaking off, accelerating hard away from the small Alliance battlegroup. Wedge pursed his lips. It was going to be _very_ tight.

* * *

“Contact is breaking away, trying to make a run for it,” Commander Sheplin reported as he bent over the tactical plot. “Rogue Squadron is on an intercept vector, they will enter missile range in—”

“They won’t make it,” Thrawn interrupted Sheplin quietly.

Sheplin’s lips tightened, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I want every sensor on this ship trained on that contact,” Thrawn ordered. “I want to at least know who found us.”

“Aye, Admiral,” Dawes said.

“Then contact our surface teams, and get them back aboard as soon as possible. With the raw material and ordnance, of course,” Thrawn said. “We won’t have much time.”

The unidentified contact winked out of existence on Thrawn’s tactical readouts.


	11. Chapter Nine

# CHAPTER NINE

 

Thrawn remade deep space combat in his image during his time in the Imperial Navy, and he brought every unorthodox strategy and tactic with him when he defected.

—From _0 BBY-0 ABY: Yavin to Hoth  
_by Tenten E. Reynolds, Military Historian

 

* * *

 

**_Kol Huro I, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_ **

The six bulk transports were nestled side-by-side on the ruddy surface of Kol Huro I, while soldiers wheeled the raw war materiel into the open cargo holds.

It was a logistical nightmare, compounded by Admiral Thrawn’s tight scheduling, and the loading officers struggled against the flow of munitions.

The majority of the Marines had been recalled to their ships, ready to repel boarders if necessary, but the remaining Marines sweated beside the Army grunts on the surface. The Marines and their Army counterparts were loading the ordnance and munitions with brute strength, instead of waiting for one of the few loading tractors.

They weren’t fast enough.

* * *

_**Kol Huro Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

Imperial Navy Task Group 91.4 flashed out of hyperspace.

The captain of the tramp freighter stood on the command deck of the _Interdictor_ -class star destroyer _Knight_ , standing beside the commander of the task group, Commodore Donnelly.

“It would appear, sirrah,” Donnelly began, his voice precise and cold, “that you were telling the truth.” His words were directed to the Rodian tramp freighter captain.

The Rodian nodded quickly, only too aware of what punishment might have befallen him, had the Rebel ships not been in the system.

“Signal _Death’s Hand_ and _Revenge_ to take position abreast. All escorts to form a picket two-thousand kilometers ahead.”

“Aye, sir,” the captain of the _Knight_ responded.

Donnelly turned to a bridge staffer. “Bring up the gravity wells,” he ordered.

* * *

_**Kol Huro I Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

“Their interdiction fields are active, Admiral,” Sheplin reported.

Thrawn nodded. “Understood, Commander,” he said. He turned to Captain Dawes. “Flash our escorts, Captain. Put them abreast of us.”

“Aye, sir.”

Thrawn glanced at the chrono mounted on the bulkhead. “Transmit the signal to Commander Antilles,” he ordered.

* * *

_**Kol Huro Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

Donnelly shook his head softly. “Incredible,” he said.

The Rebels only had what looked to be a frigate and four corvettes in the system. It was a pathetic force, and despite his best intentions, he was beginning to grow overconfident.

The Rebels were still orbiting the innermost planet, seemingly oblivious to the fact that three star destroyers and their escorts were barreling down on them. They weren’t entirely oblivious, of course, and had shifted into a line-abreast formation. Still, their lack of movement was puzzling.

“Sir, Wing Commander Bardin is requesting permission to attack,” a staffer reported.

Donnelly nodded slowly, thinking quickly. CIC was seventy percent sure that the Rebel frigate was a modified _Nebulon-B_ -class frigate, but the question was just _how_ they had modified it…

_Nebulon-B_ s had been originally designed by the Kuat Drive Yards for Imperial service as a dedicated point-defense frigate, and if the one the Rebels had hadn’t been too extensively modified, its light repeating cannons would maul Wing Commander Warner’s TIE Bombers with ease.

“Inform Wing Commander Bardin that he is to probe the enemy,” he said. “ _Probe,_ ” he repeated firmly.

“Aye, sir.”

* * *

Commander Wedge Antilles waited for the signal.

The T-65 X-Wings of Rogue Squadron were powered down, drifting free at the edge of the star system.

The _Tranquil Dawn_ was over fifteen light minutes from Rogue Squadron, and without a hypercomm, a comlink signal would take every one of those minutes to reach the X-Wings.

Wedge wasn’t certain how Admiral Thrawn could even predict the moment they would be needed fifteen minutes in advance. If some of the more exagerated stories were to be believed, the Chiss was nearly omniscient. But Wedge had his own doubts—no man could understand his enemy just by studying art!

A light on Wedge’s control board flashed.

“Here we go,” Wedge said into the headset pickup, flicking a switch and activating a jump countdown.

* * *

“Ships coming out of hyperspace, sir,” a staffer reported.

Commodore Donnelly turned to the tactical board, tearing his attention away from the main viewscreen.

A swarm of small contacts had been snatched out of hyperspace when they’d hit the artificial hyper-limit the _Knight_ was projecting with her gravity well projectors.

Donnelly shook his head softly; if this was an ambush, it was certainly the most bungled one he’d ever seen.

Movement drew his attention back to the innermost planet. The Rebels were finally reacting. Their acceleration was dangerously high, given the safety margin on a _Nebulon-_ B’s compensator, and he shook his head again. Whoever the Rebel commander was, he was either a fool, or a very green officer.

“They’re finally on the move,” Donnelly commented. “Execute fire orders the moment they’re in range.”

* * *

Wedge heard the inertial compensator screaming behind him as he accelerated hard toward the three star destroyers. The star destroyers were still accelerating toward Kol Huro I, and their engines were turned invitingly toward Rogue Squadron. It was perfect.

The S-Foils of every X-Wing were loaded down with jury-rigged capital ship torpedoes, severely limiting the acceleration rates and heat-dissipating abilities of each ship, but giving each ship the same amount of one-shot firepower as a heavy cruiser.

Wedge kept an eye on the sensor display, and more importantly the exact distance and closing velocities between them and the star destroyers.

“I think,” he said over the comlinks. “ _Now_.”

* * *

“Holy echuta!” The vulgar exclamation was entirely out of place on the bridge of an Imperial warship, and several faces turned to the staffer in shock.

“Missile trace!” the same staffer snapped. “One-nine-three degrees, three-hundred contacts, two-five-zero-zero G’s, distance is eight-zero thousand klicks.”

Donnelly’s eyes widened in shock. “All ships hard about!” he roared.

* * *

Every turbolaser and point defense cannon on the star destroyers had been trained on the _Tranquil Dawn_ ’s little battlegroup, and none of them could turn fast enough to hit the incoming missiles.

Two-hundred and eighty-eight capital ship-grade torpedoes slammed into the aft shielding of the star destroyers and their escorts, the sheer number of them tearing through the shielding like it wasn’t there.

* * *

Donnelly’s heart skipped a beat the second before the missiles impacted, and then he stared at the sudden darkness in confusion. Emergency lighting flickered on slowly, and he realized with undisguised relief that the missiles must have been tipped with ion warheads.

“Get a runner down to engineering,” he ordered. “I want to know how bad it is.” He paused, before adding, “Then get someone on the hull with a comlink, and see just how bad the task group’s been hit.”

“Aye, sir.”

* * *

_**Kol Huro I Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

“They’ve been disabled, sir,” Captain Dawes reported. “All of them.”

“Excellent,” Thrawn responded. “All batteries may commence firing on the pickets.”

“Aye, sir.”

Thrawn pulled his personal comlink out. “You may proceed, Major,” he said.

“ _Aye, sir. We’ll give the Imps your regards, sir,”_ the holographic representation of the Marine major responded, saluting.


	12. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, folks!
> 
> I'd just like to say that I've enjoyed every comment, and that reading them helps to keep me going! Thank you all!

# CHAPTER TEN

 

First rule of warfare; kill the other karker before he can kill you.

—From _The Bloody Truth  
_ by General Pol Yanak, NRMC, Retired

 

* * *

 

**_Kol Huro Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_ **

Lieutenant Aniston checked his chrono, wishing silently for a set of armor like the ones his men wore. Checking his chrono was as much to calm his nerves as to check the time. “They’re fast,” he commented quietly, his voice transmitting over a comlink built into his oxygen mask.

“ _Right, sir,”_ his sergeant said through the comlink built into his expressionless helmet. He was standing to Aniston’s right, his carbine aimed at the sparking bulkhead.

The fusion torch had been working steadily on the other side of the bulkhead for nearly five minutes, and only a thin strip of uncut durasteel remained.

Aniston slipped his sidearm out of its holster and leveled it at the bulkhead, as he leaned into one of the divots in the corridor that had been made for this exact purpose.

The bulkhead that was being cut suddenly caved and fell to the deck, landing with only a vibration in the airless corridor.

A small cylinder flew through the opening, landing with a small tremor on the deck.

“ _Flash grenade!”_ a Stormtrooper barked.

Aniston instinctively closed his eyes. The helmets the Stormtroopers wore would take almost all of the effectiveness of a flash grenade out when the visors dimmed, but it would still blind them for a short while.

Aniston opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the masked face of an Alliance Marine charging through the opening. Aniston shifted his sidearm’s aim a little, and calmly pulled the trigger.

A silent bolt of plasma spat out, catching the Marine in the chest. The fact that Aniston couldn’t hear the Rebel’s scream disturbed him more than anything else.

Another Marine charged over the body of his fallen comrade. Two bolts of plasma bit into the Rebel’s chest, but his cortosis body armor kept him alive. The armored Marine slammed into the nearest Stormtrooper, killing the trooper as he buried a vibroblade bayonet into his enemy’s chest.

The Stormtrooper’s grunt of pain came over Aniston’s comlink, and Aniston coldly shot the Marine in the back, as he was pulling his bloodied bayonet out.

* * *

Commodore Donnelly studied the deck plans of the _Knight_ , swearing silently at the speed with which the Rebel Marines were tearing through his ship.

The only place the Marines were being held back was wherever they ran into Stormtroopers, as the elite shock troopers of the Empire were proving very effective against their lightly armored opponents in the cramped corridors.

Unfortunately, Donnelly had nowhere near enough Stormtroopers to keep the Marines from slipping around the knots of resistance and hitting the unarmored, and decidedly under-trained, Imperial Army troops.

In an open battle the Army troops would have torn the Marines to pieces with their larger numbers, but in the cramped corridors they proved to be the ones being torn apart by the much better-drilled Marines.

“We just lost contact with frame fifty-five,” a staffer reported, tapping the frame of the deck plans to emphasize his report. “Be karked if I know how they did it, sir,” the staffer added.

Donnelly nodded, hardly even noticing the vulgarity. “They cut through this engineering compartment,” he said, running a finger over the thin stretch of a frame. “Veaue,” he swore. “They’re in engineering.” He tapped a frame further into the engineering section that would act as a bottleneck. “Depressurize it, and put someone— _anyone_ —here. We can’t let them take the emergency power.”

“Aye, sir.”

The staffer hurried away to find one of the few officers who had managed to get their comlinks working.

Donnelly ran his fingers through his hair shakily. This was every commander’s nightmare; a boarding action that he couldn’t seem to stop.

* * *

The Marines stripped the plating off of the engineering compartments with ruthless efficiency. They had zeroed in on the emergency power systems with frightening precision, using a set of deck plans from Admiral Thrawn—though they didn’t know he had provided them. For that matter, they didn’t know who the blue-skinned commander of this operation was.

“Should be here,” Lieutenant Haat said, motioning toward a stripped panel. “We’re—”

“ _Grenade!”_ someone yelled over the comlink.

Haat spun around to the opened hatchway, raising his carbine to his shoulder. The butt of the blaster made a soft clinking vibration as it hit his armored shoulder, and he was about to squeeze the trigger, when the grenade went off with a flash of light.

The shrapnel from the thermite grenade banged against his helmet, stunning him momentarily as he recoiled from the blow. To his surprise, however, he wasn’t dead, and he raised his carbine again.

A very cautious Imperial Army trooper advanced through the hatchway, and Haat shot him in the stomach, then proceeded to spit plasma through the open hatch.

A fellow Alliance Marine tossed a fragmentation grenade through the opened hatchway, and the deck trembled underfoot a moment later.

Haat turned back around, sticking his head back into the engineering compartment. “Red or white…” he murmured to himself, studying the mess of wiring while bolts of plasma snapped around him.

He pulled his head out, grabbing his carbine as he did so.

“Kark it,” he said to himself, leveling the carbine at the wiring.

A bolt of plasma flew out the blaster, landing inside the compartment with a shower of sparks. The overhead lighting flickered, then went out, as the power cut out.

* * *

Donnelly stared at the darkness, then blinked at a sudden point of light, as a staffer switched a portable torch on.

“Get a general message out, to all troops and spacers,” Donnelly said shakily, after a moment.

Several staffers stopped in mid-movement as they heard the defeated tone in his voice.

“Tell them to lay down arms.” He hated the words, but there was no way they could win now. The Rebels obviously controlled the engineering sections—as they’d demonstrated, by cutting main power—and they could vent the entire ship and just wait for the Imperials to run out of oxygen.

“Aye, sir.”

* * *

Thrawn surveyed the bridge of the _Knight_ with a slow turn of his head. He smiled slowly. “My compliments, Major,” he said to the dirty Marine standing at attention in full combat gear.

“Thank you, sir,” the major said. “It was a hell of a fight.”

Thrawn nodded. “I am sure you are anxious to attend to the _Death’s Hand_ ,” he said, referring to the only ship of Imperial Task Group 91.4 that was still resisting borders.

“Yes, Admiral, I am.”

“Very well. See to it, Major.”

“Aye, sir.” The Marine turned on his boot heel and began a long walk to the lift.

“Never thought I’d see the bridge of a star destroyer again, sir,” Commander Sheplin commented quietly.

“Why do you think we came to this system, Commander?” Thrawn asked, a slight smile on his lips.

Sheplin raised his eyebrows, then the skin around his eyes crinkled with laughter before the smell of plasma burns and ozone reminded him of what the human cost had been. The smile faded. “You’re more devious than I thought, Admiral.”

Thrawn smiled, a little sadly, Sheplin thought. The Admiral’s eyes focused on the stars beyond the ports, contemplating something that he could not share. Even with Sheplin.


	13. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of sad to move on from the Battle of Kol Huro...I had a lot of fun writing it...  
> But, on a happier note, this chapter introduces a new character that I had an absolute ball writing.  
> Hope you enjoy it all!

# CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

The Command Council was not pleased that Thrawn wrote his own orders, and my friend didn’t give a tinker’s dam about what pleased them.

—From _Thrawn  
_by Admiral William J. Sheplin, NRN, Retired

 

* * *

 

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

The Alliance fleet drifted through the starless void of deep space, the spartan and utilitarian hulls of the warships lit only by running lights and automated welding drones.

The _Tranquil Dawn_ was back among Cruiser Squadron Two, drifting third in the line of battle while a tanker tended to her. Her tenure as Admiral Thrawn’s flagship was over.

 _Knight_ drifted at the lead of the fleet, followed closely by her two sister ships; _Revenge_ and _Death’s Hand._ Collectively the three formed Star Destroyer Squadron One, the only collection of purpose-built star destroyers in the entire fleet.

The true flagship of the fleet, the _Starlight_ , followed behind the _Death’s Hand_ , leading her own squadron of Mon Calamari-built heavy cruisers.

A shuttle detached itself from the _Starlight_ , burning away from the Mon Calamari heavy cruiser with her sublight engines.

The newly-promoted Rear Admiral Ackbar and Senator Mon Mothma rode in the passenger compartment of the inter-fleet shuttle in silence. Mothma had her eyes closed, while she mentally prepared for coming face-to-face with the Chiss who had so greatly angered the Command Council.

Ackbar was simply along for the ride, and, to his great surprise, he found himself looking forward to seeing the Imperial turncoat again. Thrawn had an aura around him that seemed to draw capable officers and ratings to him, and Ackbar was not exempt to it.

The voice that challenged the pilot bled into the passenger compartment. _“Shuttle Two-Eight-Three, make acceleration zero, maintain vector and await further instructions.”_

The pilot complied silently, and the gentle moan from the inertial compensator died suddenly as the acceleration dropped to nothing.

A tractor beam grabbed the shuttle and began gently dragging it toward the hanger underneath the massive _Interdictor_ -class star destroyer that Thrawn had returned aboard.

* * *

Bosun’s pipes wailed as Rear Admiral Ackbar and Senator Mothma descended from the shuttle.

A full company of Thrawn’s Marines stood at attention before the two, a symbol of respect for Ackbar and Mothma, arrayed in neat ranks in the ventral hanger deck of the _Knight_.

Mothma realized uneasily that she had already begun thinking of the Marines aboard the _Knight_ as ‘Thrawn’s men,’ and not as warriors of the Alliance to Restore the Republic. Thrawn seemed to have that effect on those who served under him, and Thrawn’s subordinates seemed to grow steadily more loyal to him, and him alone, with every passing day.

“Welcome aboard _Knight_ , Senator, Admiral,” Thrawn said to her and Ackbar, saluting Mothma with careful precision. His eyes were kept directed over her head, something that made her slightly uncomfortable.

“Thank you, Admiral,” Mothma answered, glancing around the hanger of the _Knight_ with undisguised curiosity. She had grown accustomed to the smooth, curving lines of Mon Calamari ships, and the _Knight_ ’s hard utilitarian design served as a sharp contrast to the Mon Calamari’s elegant designs.

Thrawn extended his hand to the Mon Calamari rear admiral once Mothma had moved on, escorted to the flag briefing room by Commander Sheplin.

Ackbar took the Admiral’s hand without hesitation. “Good to see you back in one piece, Admiral,” he said, his voice rough from having been out of the water for too long.

“It is good to be in one piece, Admiral,” Thrawn responded, smiling.

* * *

“I will be blunt, Admiral,” Mothma said once she, Ackbar, Thrawn, and Sheplin were alone in the flag briefing room. “The Council is not pleased.”

Thrawn nodded, face passive. “Why?” he demanded.

Mothma’s face hardened slightly. She was just the Council’s messenger, but Thrawn’s sheer gall could be— “You take a single light cruiser, escorts, and six transports, supposedly to alleviate ordnance supply problems,” she said. “Then you return with three _star destroyers_ and little ordnance.”

“This concerns my ability to follow orders?” Thrawn asked, studying their faces.

“That is part of it,” Mothma said, while Ackbar remained silent. The Command Council was concerned mostly that Thrawn had led them by the nose into allowing him to ‘procure’ three star destroyers. “What the Command Council is concerned about, is that you seem to cut your own orders,” she said, phrasing it more politely.

Thrawn was silent for an instant. “I do not understand, Senator,” he said finally. “I was under the impression I was the senior-most officer in this navy.”

“You—” Mothma chopped her sentence off as she fully realized what he had said.

Mothma turned to Ackbar, who nodded solemnly, “The Admiral’s time as an Imperial admiral makes him the senior officer,” he confirmed.

Mothma bit down on her tongue, recovering from her surprise. Her surprise was not because Thrawn was attempting to pull rank on the Command Council, but that he’d even heard that his seniority had been found in excess of the rest of the Alliance’s admirals while he’d been stealing star destroyers—he’d only been back in the fleet for a half an hour after all! Did the man have spies everywhere?

“That is irrelevant to the issue at hand,” she said stiffly. “The issue is whether you recognize the Command Council’s authority over _all_ military matters.”

“By which you mean; that they demand I follow their orders to the letter?”

“Yes,” Mothma said bluntly.

“Just like Dodonna did?” Thrawn asked.

Mothma met Thrawn’s gaze. “That was cheap.”

“It is a legitimate question,” Thrawn persisted calmly. “The Council was nearly a thousand lightyears from Kol Huro when an Imperial task group dropped out of hyperspace intending to kill me and my men. What should I have done?” he demanded, his voice calm and measured. “Should I have asked for a truce while I tried to get more detailed instructions from politicians who would not understand the tactical situation in the first place?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what?” Thrawn demanded. “Should I have avoided action altogether?”

“If possible.” Mothma agreed, her voice edging into anger.

“Yet it wasn’t possible,” Thrawn said flatly. “Avoiding action with an _Interdictor_ isn’t possible.” He tilted his head to the side slightly, before continuing. “Beyond that, the transports were still being loaded by the Army units. Should I have left them for the Imperials, providing I could flee?”

Mothma’s mouth closed with an audible click. _Don’t shoot the messenger, for the Chielas sake,_ she thought with bitter irony, after Thrawn’s barbed words hit her.

* * *

“You could have been more blunt, perhaps?” Sheplin asked a moment after the hatch closed behind Mothma.

Ackbar’s amphibian eyes widened at Sheplin’s comment, and he waited for Thrawn’s dressing-down of the junior officer. To his surprise though, Thrawn smiled at the comment.

“I doubt it,” Thrawn said.

Ackbar cleared his throat. “So what was the purpose of this…meeting, Admiral?” he asked. “The Command Council?”

“I would have much rather discussed the weather on Triple Zero,” Thrawn said, smiling lightly. “But the incessant meddling of politicians had to take precedence.”

Ackbar shifted uncomfortably. Every competent officer in the Alliance had misgivings about the Council, but none had ever dared to challenge the Council so blatantly as Thrawn was doing. Then again, Thrawn had three star destroyers to back up his challenge.

“That is why I wanted you here, Admiral,” Thrawn said. “I understand the need for a civilian government,” Thrawn continued, looking directly at Ackbar, “but we can not afford to allow civilians to dictate strategy or tactics. History is filled with examples of what follows such a mistake.”

Ackbar nodded slowly. “What are you planning?” he asked warily.

Thrawn shrugged. “I have already done it,” he said. “Mothma is the only person who can dissolve the Command Council peacefully, and I just gave her some serious criticisms of the Council to think about—as well as an implied threat.”

Ackbar was very still. That Thrawn was telling him any of this meant that he’d just been recruited into Thrawn’s cadre, and had been taken—partially, at least—into Thrawn’s confidence. Thrawn was clearly going to need supporters in this endeavor, and the Mon Calamari followed Ackbar’s leaning with only rare exceptions.

The Mon Calamari hesitated. “What if she doesn’t dissolve it, sir?” he asked.

Thrawn smiled wanly. “Then, Admiral, _w_ _e_ dissolve it by force.”

* * *

**_Imperial Center, Deep Core, 0 ABY_ **

Colonel Hiram Flynn sat in the proffered seat with a sigh.

“Colonel,” Deputy Director Ison, the second in command of the Imperial Security Bureau, said in greeting.

“Deputy Director,” Flynn responded, his voice quiet and subtle.

The two men studied each other silently, and, finally, Ison smiled. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Colonel,” he said insincerely.

Flynn smiled tolerantly. Ison and he had always been—and would likely always be—mortal enemies. Throughout the years countless words and blaster bolts had been exchanged between them—either through proxy agents or directly.

“I assume you have a job that can not be done, but that needs to be done by next week?” Flynn asked.

Ison smiled coldly. “You are as witty as ever.”

“Thank you, Deputy Director.” Flynn returned Ison’s cold smile. “Now, what is the crisis that brings me to your desk?”

“Tell me, Colonel, have you ever heard of Kol Huro?”


	14. Chapter Twelve

# CHAPTER TWELVE

 

The Starlight Coup—though it was not called such until years after the event—was handled with all of Thrawn’s immense skill and finesse.

—From _0 BBY-0 ABY: Yavin to Hoth  
_ by Tenten E. Reynolds, Military Historian

 

* * *

 

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

The Command Council meeting was as organized as a nerf stampede.

Mon Mothma took a moment to study the anarchy around her, remembering what her daughter had said. _Lieda’s only fourteen, but she could see it before I could,_ Mothma thought to herself. _Even Admiral Thrawn saw it before I did._

The Alliance had…changed. She was loath to admit it, even to herself, but the Command Council had turned into two wolffs and a nerf voting on what was for lunch.

She took a deep breath. “A lost cause…” she said very quietly.

“Not quite, Senator, but that is a close description,” Thrawn murmured in response from his position to her right.

She clenched her teeth, making sure to hide the action from the ever-observant Chiss. Thrawn had done exactly what he had wanted, no doubt, when he had made his disdain for the Council’s strategic and tactical decision-making plain, and she had thought about it for days.

She knew he was using her, even if he hadn’t truly meant to, but the problem had gone too far: Either she suspended the Council, or she let it continue to destroy the Alliance that so many had labored to build piece by piece.

But the action went against everything she had thought she believed in. Palpatine had used the Senate’s corruption and inaction as justification for declaring the New Order, and there were more than a few parallels between her position and what Palpatine’s had been. But she didn’t _want_ the power dissolving the Council would grant her, and she hoped that was enough to keep her from becoming just like the Emperor.

Mon Mothma cracked her gavel a bit too sharply, trying to bring an end to the chaos, and the Council stilled. She glanced down and saw that she had snapped the handle off of the gavel.

She set the splintered handle down carefully, rising as she did so. “Gentlemen, ladies.” She swallowed. “Please be seated.”

The councilmen, who had been debating the ever-constant issue of supplies and ordnance, sat stiffly.

_I might as well be blunt._ “The gross negligence of this council has reared its head time and time again,” Mothma said directly to the councilmen.

Her words seemed to shock the Council more than the breaking gavel had.

“We are an alliance of soldiers,” she began. “At least we claim to be. I have my own doubts.” A Togruta rose, to, in his mind, valiantly dispel the doubts of their figurehead leader, but Mothma spoke on before he could try. “But we are not the alliance that we claim to be. We claim to fight for the rights of every species to a fair republican government, but it has been the clearly-expressed opinion of this Council that some species are more equal than others. Councilors bicker and war with one another for relief supplies while our soldiers are forced to larceny to survive. And yet, when the safety of this alliance was directly threatened—when _all_ of us were threatened—by Tarkin, there was no unity to be found.”

“ _We survived,”_ a Wookie’s translator protested.

“And who was responsible for that?” she demanded. “Dodonna. And you stripped him of his position as commander-in-chief, without my consent, then banished him from the Council—and you’re yet to appoint a successor for him.” She shook her head. _Thrawn was right,_ she thought again. “You weren’t concerned about the survival of the Alliance, and you most certainly weren’t willing to humble yourselves to make compromises.”

Thrawn had left his seat, and disappeared out of the room, though his disappearance had gone unnoticed by the stunned councilmen. They were too entranced by the blunt, hard senator who’d replaced their polite, soft-spoken figurehead.

“You are not fit to lead this Alliance, and you never will. The Alliance Charter stipulates that the current chief of state may dissolve this body, if they deem it necessary, with a super-majority vote. As the acting chief of state, I am invoking Article Seven.”

The shocked silence reigned for an instant longer, and then the Council exploded into activity. Throngs of councilmen stood bolt upright, yelling and raging at Mothma’s action.

The thin veneer of civility that had always been granted fellow councilmen vanished and voices yelled for Mothma’s removal, and some attempted to move forward with such a vote, while others screamed that she was a traitor.

Mothma seized her broken gavel and began pounding the tabletop with it. “Order!” she yelled.

Order refused to come, and only the career officers of the three branches sat quietly among the chaos—most of them knew what was coming. Ackbar was no career officer, but he knew what was coming as well, and he clenched the sides of his chair tightly.

The hatches were swung open by Alliance Marines, and the councilmen nearest to them turned to see three ranks of the elite infantry in full combat dress. The combat fatigues, oxygen masks, and fixed bayonets gave their intent away.

Fear rippled through the councilmen and silence fell over them in a ragged hush.

Thrawn strode through the ranks of his Marines slowly. He smiled thinly at the sudden, total power he wielded over the fates of the councilmen. One word and the whole lot would be shot and he could take the Alliance for himself.

But he glanced at Mothma’s face, which was just as fearful as those of the councilmen, and he knew he could never do it. She had made a leap of faith by assuming he wouldn’t kill her or every being on the council, and he couldn’t reward that faith with evil; even if it would make his task immensely simpler.

“Article Seven requires a two-thirds majority,” he said to the frightened councilmen, his hands clasped behind his back. “I believe, now that you’ve stopped yelling and screaming, that you will see the imminent wisdom of voting for the Senator.” He glanced meaningfully behind himself, at the Marines, and their bared bayonets.

Thrawn looked back to Mothma. “Let’s find your votes, Senator.”

* * *

_**Sullust Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

The duty officer on the bridge of the _Royal_ was tired. His shift was only a little over half done, but he was already beginning to drift off. He shook himself and sent a steward to the officers’ mess for a cup of something hot and liquid.

When the steward returned with the steaming plasteel mug of caf, he gave his silent thanks and drank gratefully. He’d hated the taste of caf for years, and he still did, but it had always helped him stay awake.

He burned his throat on the first sip and then proceeded to spill the entire cup on his uniform as a warning klaxon blared.

He swore viciously as the steaming hot liquid soaked his tunic and scalded him. “What is it?” he snapped at a staffer.

The bridge staffers quickly looked back to their screens to hide their snickers and grins—Lieutenant Commander Halson had never been popular.

“Contact at oh-four-eight, range is five-zero thousand kilometers,” a staffer reported. “Single shuttle, IFF looks good.”

“Understood,” Halson said, the burning from the caf subsiding a little. “Challenge them.”

* * *

Captain Tankersy, commander of the  _Royal_ , forced himself to remain calm while the Imperial Security Bureau colonel stepped off of the shuttle.

ISB agents, as well as their upper brass, were an unorthodox mixture of pomposity, callousness, and ruthlessness, but this colonel seemed to lack overt evidence of any of those characteristics.

The colonel was a little shorter than average, with short-cropped sandy hair. His features were blunt, but there was a curiously humorous light in his eyes. He walked with a carefully measured stride, landing each step on the balls of his feet. Once he was was merely a few strides away from Tankersy, the captain could sense the raw sense of danger radiating from him.

“Welcome aboard, Colonel,” Tankersy said. “We were not expecting you.”

“That is quite all right, Captain.” The colonel stopped short of Tankersy, before extending his hand. “I am Colonel Flynn.” Tankersy took the proffered hand. “Deputy Director Ison has directed me to proceed to the Kol Huro system as soon as possible, and I do so hope you won’t mind me commandeering your ship.”

“Not at all, Colonel,” Tankersy lied.

Flynn snorted. “Clearly a lie, Captain,” Flynn said, walking toward the lift. “But I admire the effort.”

* * *

_**Kol Huro Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

The _Royal_ accelerated through the system while her fighter compliment screened ahead of the big star destroyer, looking for any last-minute traps the Rebels may have left for them.

There were hundreds upon hundreds of lifeboats drifting unpowered in the system, as the crew compliment of even a single _Imperial_ -class star destroyer was gargantuan, and SAR crews from the _Royal_ were struggling to take them all aboard.

Commodore Donnelly had been recovered by one of the first SAR expeditions, taking him to the safe, familiar silhouette of the Imperial star destroyer. Now though, he would have much rather still been in his cramped lifeboat, trying to extend his meager life support systems, than be interrogated by the ISB.

The questions had been hard and probing, but Donnelly had expected nothing but that from a full colonel of the ISB. At least he hadn’t strapped the defeated commodore to a torture rack and left him to die in excruciating pain—Donnelly knew of at least one time that had happened.

Colonel Flynn had been idly toying with his touchpad, but now he looked up and smiled. “I understand your situation, Commodore,” he said. “Well, as much as any man who hadn’t been there could,” he corrected himself. “No reasonable man could have expected strike-craft to be that heavily armed.”

“No, no, of course not.” Donnelly nodded jerkily, though he had an unnerving sensation that he was being set up. Probably just the residual paranoia of being in the same room as an ISB officer.

“Still, you lost your entire task group—including an _Interdictor—_ to a frigate and four corvettes.” Flynn’s smile remained the same. “I doubt the Admiralty will be pleased.”

“No, Colonel, they won’t be pleased,” Donnelly agreed. “Not that it would have mattered much who was in command.”

Flynn nodded a little, looking utterly in control of himself. “An opinion,” he stated. “As fiendish as your enemy seems, why he left you alive still puzzles me.”

Donnelly looked confused. “The crew accommodations would have been atrocious if he’d taken us prisoner—there was simply not enough room.” He glance around the room. “Something I’m sure your captain will find, once he packs this ship full of us.”

“I’m sure he will,” Flynn agreed. “But your enemy was cold, impossibly precise, and never once contacted you. Not even to demand your surrender. A man like that doesn’t think twice about killing inconvenient prisoners.”

Donnelly was surprised he could see it before Flynn, but he was a Naval officer—by the definitions of the Service a gentleman—and Flynn was a calculating ISB officer; basically an extremely competent detective. “It was honor, Colonel,” Donnelly said. “Just simple honor.”

* * *

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

“There’s going to be a civil war if we aren’t careful, Admiral,” Admiral Trace commented quietly.

“The Council?” Thrawn asked.

“Sure enough,” Trace said, eliciting nods from the other admirals, both rear and full, from around the table. “The Council is gone now—you saw to that,” he added. “But those councilmen are still in the military, and you just cetted all over their pretty delusions. They can do a lot of damage to you.”

“I agree,” Thrawn said calmly. “We must secure the loyalty of the Marines, to ensure the former councilmen don’t do something unfortunate.”

“You seemed to have the Marines under your thumb during the meeting,” Ackbar commented.

Thrawn smiled slightly. “They were some of my spacers in Marine uniforms,” he explained. “Had the Council been any less terrified, it could have been…messy.”

“So we still need to earn the support of the Marines,” Admiral Waller, the most junior of the full admirals, said.

“We do,” Thrawn agreed. “And there is one clear path to a Marine’s loyalty; supplies.”

Trace cut back in. “There’s only one problem with that, Admiral: We don’t have any supplies to spare,” he said. “And I somehow doubt that the Council had a private store of light arms and supplies we could liberate.”

“Ah, Admiral,” Thrawn said, amused. “I’m afraid they did.” He tapped the table absently, while he constructed the most endearing argument for what he wanted to do. “Do any of you know the amount of supplies that Procurement and Supply manage, on average, to find every month?” he asked. He smiled when there was no answer. “Two-point-seven million tons of foodstuffs, and eighty thousand tons of ordnance and ammunition—it’s a big galaxy.”

Every admiral stared at Thrawn, their eyes wide.

“Then why the kark haven’t we seen any of it?” Waller demanded.

“Because eighty-four percent is sent to occupied planets for relief missions,” Thrawn said. “A worthy cause, of course, but wasted effort this early in the war. We drop tons upon tons of relief and small arms for resistance groups, but then send our spacers into battle without meals. We must prioritize _effective_ military assets—namely the Navy, the Marine Corps, and the Army.”

There were a few nods. Winning the war had to take precedence over the relief missions, which they’d never even thought much about. Once they’d done that, they could turn their efforts to rebuilding the galaxy.

Ackbar saw the political realities more easily than his comrades, and he said, “Mothma will never go for this. It would be political suicide to cut back on sending relief missions—the few planets supporting us would crucify her.”

“For better, or for ill, Mothma no longer answers to a bloated legislature,” Thrawn said. “I saw to that.”

Rear Admiral Tam nodded a little. “Fair enough, Admiral. But this is _Mothma_ we’re talking about—she _will_ have reservations about taking bread out of the mouths of war orphans,” he said.

Thrawn shook his head. “ _I_ have reservations, gentles, but my eyes have been open for years, and I am a pragmatist. Her eyes were recently opened rather forcibly—a coup has that effect—and she’s always been pragmatic. Either she approves taking bread and blasters from orphans and guerrillas, or she begins to worry that I’ll find someone more pliant to take her desk.”

There was a moment of surprised silence. “Would you, Admiral?” Tam asked slowly. “Find someone more ‘pliant’?”

Thrawn turned his red-eyed gaze to the rear admiral from the Mid Rim. “No, Admiral, I would not,” he said. “But she does not have to know that.”


	15. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again—though I don't believe I'll ever be able to say it enough—thank you to all of you who leave those comments and kudos! Hope you enjoy the next chapter!

# CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

I wonder, from time to time, if we would have been better off to have never settled on Hoth…

—From _Thrawn  
_by Admiral William J. Sheplin, NRN, Retired

 

* * *

 

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

The Alliance skiff dipped into the frigid atmosphere, leaving behind a trail of superheated plasma.

The inertial compensator and particle shields took the worst out of the atmospheric entry, but the survey team was strapped into acceleration seats in the unlikely event the compensator failed.

The skiff slowed itself by reshaping the particle shields into air brakes, which momentarily brightenedthe plasma trailing behind as their speed dropped.

“On final approach,” the pilot said automatically, flipping switches on his master control board that controlled the repulsorlifts and shield shape. “Stand by for landing maneuvers.”

The trail of plasma cut off abruptly, and the skiff’s velocity dropped even further.With delicate hands on the controls, the pilot brought the skiff to a complete stop mere meters above the snow-swept ground.Landing struts unfolded from the bottom and sank deep into the snowy ground before finding purchase.

“Setting the engines down to idle,” the pilot said. “I can’t shut them off or they’ll freeze up and we’ll all be karked,” he explained to Res Stanfard, the survey team leader, who was strapped into the co-pilot’s chair beside him.

“Understood,” she said, unstrapping herself. “How long can you keep them at idle?”

“And still have fuel enough to get back? Maybe two hours,” the pilot said. “I’ll give you a harder estimate once I see how she’s idling.”

“That should be more than enough time,” Stanfard said, heading to the aft of the skiff.

The rest of the survey team was already unstrapped and pulling out their equipment.

* * *

It was _cold_. Stanfard was already chilled to the bone, and she was regretting ever suggesting they do anything more than survey the Hoth system from a high orbit.

“Well, they wouldn’t have sent us here without a good reason,” Jak Jo’Gorther commented.

“Wouldn’t bet on it,” Stanfard said. “The way the Admiralty’s been giving out orders you’d think they’re all high.” She looked around and snorted, her exhaled breath freezing instantly. “Who would want to put a base _here_?”

Jo’Gorther laughed, “But that’s the beauty of it, Res. No one will ever _look_ here.”

Stanfard shrugged, conceding the point.

“ _You’ve got another fifty minutes, Stanfard,_ _I had to set her idling higher than I expected,_ _”_ the pilot said over their comlinks.

“Acknowledged,” Stanfard responded, feeling a flash of resentment for the pilot who was waiting in the heated skiff.

“What’s that?” Jo’Gorther asked, pointing at a series of shapes on the snowy horizon. The shapes were distorted by a snowstorm.

“Mountain range,” Stanfard said. “That’s the big one we spotted from orbit.”

“I’m sure command will want a detailed report on those ranges,” Jo’Gorther said. “Command’ll probably stud those mountains with—” His voice cut off when he suddenly disappeared with a scream.

Stanfard whirled around and saw a gaping hole where Jo’Gorther had been standing. She ran over to it. “Jak!” she yelled.

“I’m all right!” Jo’Gorther yelled back up, his voice coming through the hole. “Looks like a tunnel system down here.”

“Stay right there!” Stanfard yelled. “I’m heading back to the skiff for a line!”

“Sure thing!” Jo’Gorther yelled back.

Stanfard turned away from the hole, before stopping as she heard a muffled exclamation and scream. “Jak?” she yelled.

Two rapid blaster shots sounded, so close together they sounded almost like one.

Knowing she couldn’t do anything to help him, she sprinted back to the skiff, ignoring the puzzled glances from the rest of the survey team.

She snatched a forty-meter length of cable from the skiff, and sprinted back to the hole, calling for help as she did so.

She secured one end of the line in the hands of three team members and slid down into the hole as rapidly as she could.

At the base of the hole, she dropped off the line and drew her sidearm. “Jak?” she called out cautiously, trying to get her eyes to adapt to the darkness.

“Took your panbocn time about it,” he said. His voice was so close that she nearly jumped in surprise.

Jo’Gorther was propped up against the wall of a tunnel that led north, a blaster in his hand. Blood flowed freely from his chest, and he had one hand pressed against it.

In front of Jo’Gorther, a massive, hairy white creature lay dead, with two singed marks where the plasma bolts had hit it.

She didn’t bother to ask the clichéd and stupid question ‘Are you all right?’ and instead dropped to her knees in front of Jo’Gorther. “Can you walk?”

“Think so,” he said. His voice seemed curiously detached.

She slipped an arm under him and very carefully lifted him upward.

They made it to the line with slow tentative steps, leaving thick drops of blood on the frozen ground as they went.

She rigged the line into a loop and slung it under his arm, and over his head. “Take it up!” She yelled.

Jo’Gorther rose slowly, jerking upward little bits at a time as the three men on top pulled at the line.

“ _We’ve got about thirty minutes left Stanfard,”_ the pilot said, his voice a bit staticky over the comlink. _“And also; why are you all huddled together over there?”_

Stanfard keyed her own comlink. “Jak’s been attacked by a creature, he’s bleeding and needs immediate medical attention. Get the medpacks out, and get ready for him.”

“ _Understood,”_ the pilot answered. He was intelligent enough to not ask dumb questions.

“I want to take some recordings of this creature, and then I’ll be up and we can get off this karking planet.”

“ _Copy on that.”_

Stanfard took out a holo-recorder, and swept it around the tunnel, trusting that it would be able to correct for the lack of light. Then she took a few steps toward the creature.

The creature was too heavy to move or turn over, so she settled for recordings of the parts of it that were visible. The massive hairy nightmare was larger and hairier than a Wookie, except the fur was white and the head was wider.

The creature had brushed against the wall of the tunnel as it fell, and a pattern of welded seams and rivets had been unveiled as the collection of ice was torn away.

She aimed the recorder at the metal wall, seeing for the first time a small plaque. She focused the recorder on the plaque and ran her fingers along it to show the scale. It was an old language, very ornate and precise.

She closed down the recorder and climbed back up the line.

* * *

**_Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_ **

Colonel Flynn studied the starcharts with a careful eye. Captain Tankersy had been beyond accommodating to Flynn, even giving the ISB Colonel full access to the flag bridge. Either Tankersy had taken an irrational liking to Flynn, or the ISB’s reputation had the man terrified. Either was fine with Flynn.

“Colonel, message from Imperial Center, with the Captain’s compliments,” a lieutenant said, handing a touchpad to Flynn.

Flynn accepted the touchpad, then smiled thinly as he read. He tapped his comlink. “Captain Tankersy, please meet me in the flag bridge at your earliest convenience.”

* * *

“Did you read the message?” Flynn demanded as Tankersy stepped off of the lift.

“I—” Tankersy swallowed. Reading an officer’s message—and Tankersy begrudgingly admitted that Flynn _was_ an officer—was against the regulations. He shook his head. “I didn’t,” he said.

“Pity, I’ll have to explain what it said then.” Flynn touched a control on the holo-emitter. “Imperial Intelligence agents in the Rebellion have been systematically isolated and eliminated,” he said, gesturing to a plethora of Human and alien faces in Imperial uniforms that were being displayed via hologram. All of the faces had ‘MIA’ and ‘KIA’ tags above them.

Tankersy shivered a little at the term ‘eliminated.’ It seemed far too civil of a way to refer to death.

“But a few agents managed to send intel packets before they were eliminated.” Flynn’s eyes were hard, but also gleaming in his unique way while he considered the new information. “There seems to be a major shake-up taking place in the Rebellion, even as we speak.”

“Shake-up, Colonel?”

“There seems to be a new player on the stage.” Flynn was obviously chewing over his thoughts as he spoke, and the words came out slowly. “There is no hard evidence as of now, but it would appear their Command Council has suddenly lost all executive power.”

“Meaning, Colonel?”

“Meaning that they are suddenly blastedly effective,” Flynn explained. “The majority of their humanitarian missions have been canceled, and raids and long-range strike missions have suddenly become remarkably well organized.”

“Could it be Mothma?”

Flynn waved away the suggestion. “The Senator is incapable of such military efficiency, she’s a politician, a bureaucrat. No, this shake-up is the result of a career military man. Perhaps the same one who took Commodore Donnelly’s task group apart.”

Tankersy could only nod, the ISB colonel was too far ahead of his own thought process for him to keep up.

“But who?” Flynn asked aloud. “The lack of any action during any number of blunders in the past indicates a new player, not one of their leaders that we know of.”

Flynn’s hands began typing commands into the holo-emitter. “Career military men don’t drop out of the sky,” he said, eyes scouring the new holographic faces that arranged themselves into a semicircle. Every face had an ‘MIA’ tagged above it.

Flynn began adding notes to each face with quick keystrokes, and dismissing some from the semicircle entirely. They were all Imperial Naval officers.


	16. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting yesterday. Between clearing brush, going to church, and spending time with my friends, it was a busy day. I'll be posting two today, to make up for it. Anyway, hope you folks like this chapter and the next one.

# CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

It’s remarkable, even miraculous, that the Alliance discovered Dorn Base relatively intact on Hoth. The financial cost alone for building an outpost from scratch would have been staggering.

—From _0 BBY-0 ABY: Yavin to Hoth  
_ by Tenten E. Reynolds, Military Historian

 

* * *

 

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

Thrawn took the report from Sheplin’s hand and studied it with a quick glance. “Maintenance teams are having trouble with the _Revenge_ ’s life support systems, Admiral,” Sheplin summed up. “Lack of any shipyard or deepdock is, of course, making matters more difficult. Our Marines’ ‘overly-enthusiastic entrance’ aboard the ship didn’t help.”

“They’re Marines,” Thrawn said, setting the _Revenge_ ’s engineering report on top of a growing stack of flimsi. Not many naval officers had high regard for marines, though most did grant that they had their uses.

Sheplin handed Thrawn the next report. “Debriefing from the Hoth survey, sir,” he said. “It might interest you.”

Thrawn peeled back the first page of the new report and glanced over the picture on the second page. “It does indeed,” he said. He tapped the two-dimensional picture printed on the flimsi. “Interesting looking creature.”

“Yes, sir, it mauled one of the survey team badly before he killed it,” Sheplin said. “They don’t think it was sentient.”

Thrawn nodded. “Remarkable that anything could survive on Hoth.”

“It was in a tunnel system when it was killed,” Sheplin explained, remembering the details of the report.

“Tunnel system?” Thrawn asked, his eyes sharpening. “Natural?”

“No, sir, definitely artificial. The walls, though covered in ice, were made of some form of metal, durasteel most likely. Page three.”

Thrawn peeled back two pages of the report, and his eyes found the plaque that Stanfard had recorded. “Interesting,” he commented. “‘This complex is dedicated to the One True Emperor.’” He translated the alien words effortlessly. Thrawn saw that part of the plaque was still obscured by frost.

“Imperial?” Sheplin asked in surprise.

“Of a sort,” Thrawn agreed. “The language is a Sith offshoot; which hasn’t been in public use for nearly a thousand years.”

“A _thousand_ years, sir?”

“Though this plaque is probably much older,” Thrawn added. “The last true Sith Emperor’s life is a mystery, but he ruled nearly thirty-six hundred years ago. I would suppose the plaque is from the same era.”

“What were they doing on _Hoth_ , of all places?”

“I do not know,” Thrawn said, standing. “Please prep a shuttle, Commander. I want the survey team from Hoth as well.”

* * *

**_Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_ **

Hoth was every bit as hostile as Sheplin had imagined. The temperature was frigid enough to freeze his breath as it left his mouth, and he shuddered to think what would happen to a man without any thermal gear.

Thrawn stood alone on the frozen ground, while his team huddled together a few meters behind. Thrawn seemed immune to the chill, passively studying the terrain.

“Where is this, tunnel of yours, Stanfard?” Thrawn’s tone seemed just as icy as the atmosphere.

“It’s just over this way, Admiral.” Stanfard shivered as she looked at the coordinates on her touchpad. “It should be right here.”

“So it is,” Thrawn said. “I believe I see it,” he added, walking on through the snow.

The hole was still there, though Jo’Gorther’s blood was gone, covered by a light dusting of snow.

“This is it, Admiral,” Stanfard said, slipping her touchpad into a pocket.

“Interesting.” Thrawn studied the walls of the hole closer, running his gloved hand over one edge, wiping snow away as he did so.

“What is it, sir?” Sheplin asked, recognizing Thrawn’s intent expression.

“This is a maintenance shaft,” he said. “I would have thought one would be buried deeper after all this time.” He scraped some more loose snow away from the side, then stopped and stood upright.

“Get a line rigged, Commander.”

“Aye, sir.” Sheplin dug into the packs of one of the Marine bodyguards and rigged a synthrope line for a smooth rappelling action. He clipped one end of the line to Thrawn’s belt and gave it a hard tug to confirm it could handle his admiral’s weight.

* * *

Thrawn carefully brushed frost and ice from the plaque, smiling softly as he translated the rest of it to himself.

He heard Sheplin walking closer. “What have you found, Commander?” he asked.

“The complex extends well into the mountain range, sir,” Sheplin reported. “We couldn’t explore every nook, but sonic imaging shows that it’s _big_.”

Thrawn nodded. “A mining complex would be,” he said.

“Mining, sir?”

Thrawn motioned to the plaque. “It appears the complex was built to remove lumni-spice from this rather desolate planet.”

“Lumni-spice?” Sheplin asked—he’d never heard of such a drug.

“I haven’t the slightest notion, Commander, but it was undoubtedly valuable enough to warrant such a large complex.” Thrawn gestured to the plaque again. “Even to the point that the Sith Empire built a fort here.”

Sheplin’s eyes became sharp. “Is the fort still intact?” he asked.

“I do not know, Commander, but I intend to find out.”

* * *

_**Deep Space, Wild Space, 0 ABY** _

Flynn emerged from the flag cabin, making his way to the bridge while he chewed over his latest problem.

Every MIA Imperial Naval officer—whoever was shaking up the Alliance was obviously a trained spacer; not a ground-pounder—had proved to be a dead-end.

The majority of the MIAs were captured personnel who had never given any indication that they were anything but loyal sons of the New Order. Most of the remainder had been lost in combat where their remains could not be discovered, and only a very select few were traitors. Of the traitors though, none had the competence to reorganize the Alliance as it had been.

That left him with no leads, and the frightening idea that perhaps the new player had been trained by a foreign power, or that he had been trained by Alliance. But the Alliance drew most of its flag officers from Imperial-trained traitors, and the Alliance-trained officers were generally considered incompetent, so he considered that an unlikely prospect. But an officer trained by a foreign power wasn’t as unlikely…

The bridge was muted when Flynn strode onto the bridge. Captain Tankersy turned to greet Flynn with a salute. “Colonel,” he said in greeting. “We are holding position at the coordinates you gave us.”

“Excellent,” Flynn said, returning the captain’s salute. Flynn checked the bulkhead-mounted chrono, and nodded. “They should be here any moment,” he commented.

Seconds later, a staffer reported a new sensor contact emerging from hyperspace. The Chiss Ascendancy were anything if not punctual.

* * *

The C.E.D.F.S. _Tun’isbi_ was a typical Chiss warship, though on a smaller scale. She was classified as a light cruiser, ideally suited for fast attacks against enemy shipping, but she had never been used for anything more than policing actions at the fringes of Chiss space.

Captain Tankersy followed behind Colonel Flynn, keeping his eyes averted from the countless glowing eyes that were turned their way as they walked through the utilitarian hanger of the _Tun’isbi_. The Chiss were unsettling.

Tankersy had never believed stories about the Chiss, and never imagined they were anything more than a petty empire on the fringe of Imperial space. But the _Tun’isbi_ ’s design proved that these people were every bit as advanced as the Empire, and the crew’s obvious proficiency showed that whatever their nation might be, it was not petty.

A black-uniformed Chiss, who was obviously an officer from his bearing, nodded to Flynn, eyes steady as he studied the pair of Humans. “Welcome aboard, gentles.”

Flynn nodded. “Thank you for your people’s promptness in answering our request, Commander Ath’en’terro,” Flynn said, pronouncing the Chiss commander’s proper name with care.

“Of course, Colonel.”

* * *

Safely locked away in the captain’s cabin, Flynn filled Commander Ath’en’terro in on the Alliance’s sudden command shake-up.

The Chiss listened patiently, then shrugged minutely. “I am afraid this does not concern the Ascendancy, Colonel.”

“It does not,” Flynn agreed. “But my search for such a man that could reshape the Alliance this quickly and effectively, has come up dry. And I doubt the Alliance could have trained this man, which brings us to the Ascendancy.”

Ath’en’terro was silent as he studied the men. “What are you asking?” he demanded.

“A record of Chiss MIAs.” Flynn smiled a little. “A large favor, I know, but I, and the Empire, would be in your debt.”

“What would be given in return, beyond your gratitude?” Ath’en’terro asked.

Flynn blinked. “What do you require?” he asked slowly.

The Chiss smiled a little. “Fifteen star destroyers, _Imperial-_ class.”

Tankersy nearly choked. “ _Fifteen_?”

Flynn wet his lips. Obviously the Chiss had expected the Empire wanted a favor, and had set a price before they even knew what it was. “It can be done, but I will need to check with my superiors,” he said. “I can’t make fifteen star destroyers appear out of nothing.”

“I understand, Colonel,” Ath’en’terro assured him. “When you have instructions from your superiors, we can discuss the details.”

* * *

“That was it?” Tankersy demanded once they were back aboard the shuttle. “We could blast that ship apart and take whatever information we need, Colonel. We don’t need to hand over a battlegroup to the blueskins. Who knows what they’ll do with fifteen star destroyers?”

“And make an enemy of the Chiss?” Flynn asked grimly. “Tell me, Captain, do you really think we could destroy them?”

Tankersy nodded firmly. “Of course, Colonel.”

“Assuming you are correct—and you are not—then how could we maintain _any_ pressure against the Rebellion if we are too caught up fighting a real war with the Chiss?” Flynn demanded. “No, Captain, we won’t trifle with the blueskins.”

Tankersy swallowed his further comments with one huff.

* * *

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

“A base on Hoth?” Senator Mon Mothma asked, her voice was as quiet as ever.

“Yes, Senator,” Thrawn said, gesturing to Sheplin.

Sheplin stepped forward and set a portable holo-emitter on the table. A maze-like series of boxes and compartments rose out of the emitter, and Sheplin pointed to the highest portion of the maze. “This is Dorn Base,” he said. “A fortification left over from the Galactic Cold War. Our orbital scans missed it entirely—which isn’t surprising, since a few thousand years of ice cover the whole complex. The interior is mostly intact.”

“And?”

“And I believe this could be the base we need,” Thrawn said. “As much as I understand the need for strategic mobility, we will need a new base.”

Mothma nodded slowly. As the chief of state, this was _her_ decision, she realized. She turned to the representatives from the Army and Marines. “Opinions, gentlemen?”

General Yanak, the de facto leader of the Marine Corps, shrugged. “I defer to my colleagues,” he said simply. His business was exclusively ship-to-ship boarding actions, as well as carving out a beachhead during invasions, not building forts.

General Trantor studied the holographic base. “There’s enough room for short-term habitation, though we’re probably going to have to blast out new room if we start basing more than a few units there.” He paused for an instant. “Fortification might be a ciken though, until we can put some heavy-hitters on the surface.” He turned to Mothma after studying the hologram further. “Overall, I like it, Senator. It has promise”

Mothma nodded. “Admiral?” she invited.

Thrawn shrugged. “It is much too close to the main hyperspace routes for comfort,” he began, “but the Ison Corridor is rarely used by Imperial merchantmen, and we could be relatively safe there. Being so close to the Ison Corridor could also allow us to begin receiving regular shipments from loyal planets.”

Mothma nodded again. “I will study these reports in detail, gentlemen,” she said, “and come to a decision within the week.”

It was a clear dismissal, and all of the officers stood from their seats, before saluting.


	17. Chapter Fifteen

# CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

In retrospect, I am surprised that the Chiss were so willing to betray the greatest commander their academies ever produced—even if he had been exiled—for only fifteen star destroyers. I would have charged at least thirty.

—From _The Hunt for Thrawn_  
by Colonel Hiram Flynn, ISB, Retired

 

* * *

 

_**Deep Space, Wild Space, 0 ABY** _

“ _Fifteen_ star destroyers _?”_ Deputy Director Ison’s voice was slightly out of time with the holographic representation of his face, giving the exclamation a comical effect. _“Have you gone entirely mad, Flynn?”_ he demanded.

“Not entirely, I assure you,” Flynn responded over the hypercomm. “Commander Ath’en’terro was willing to call off the deal if their MIA lists prove to be a dead end.”

“ _An alien’s assurances do not reassure_ me _, Colonel.”_

“No, sir, of course not. If I had a dreadnought on-hand, I could make him think twice about just taking the star destroyers.”

Ison’s face contorted in shock, _“A_ dreadnought _?”_ He repeated, _“You’re insane! I sent you after a missing task group, now you want to swap fifteen star destroyers to a foreign power in exchange for a maybe-lead?_ And _you need a dreadnought to make sure the deal doesn’t fall through? This is madness!”_

Flynn clicked his teeth, hiding a smile. “I know where the task group is, sir,” he said, his tone barely civil. “That much I’ve known from the beginning,” he added. “The Alliance captured it.” He finished speaking and waited patiently for the explosion.

Ison didn’t quite explode, but even in the false color of the hologram, Flynn could see his face suddenly flush in anger. _“And you didn’t tell me?”_ Ison demanded.

“Why should I?” Flynn asked. “So that you could tell me to get it back?” he demanded. “You know karking well that I work best when your stupidity is out of my hair.”

Ison finally blew up. _“That is_ it _, Flynn!”_ he snapped. _“You’re a loose karking cannon. You are relieved of command of this operation!”_

“I take it I won’t be getting my star destroyers then?”

Ison stared in disbelief, then cut the hypercomm at his end.

Flynn grinned and stood slowly. He tapped a key on the holo-emitter’s control board. Captain Tankersy appeared out of the emitter. “Let the Chiss know that the deal fell through, Captain.” Flynn said.

* * *

_**Imperial Center, Deep Core, 0 ABY** _

“The man is unhinged, Director,” Ison declared.

Director Sollaine smiled tolerantly. “You two have been going at it for years,” he said, “and you are just-so-eager to do him in, aren’t you?”

Ison clenched his teeth. “The man wanted to give fifteen _star destroyers_ to a foreign power.”

“In exchange for a lead,” Sollaine corrected calmly.

Ison paused. “He asked you first?” he guessed, fresh anger seeping into his voice. That little son of a ciken—

“Naturally,” Sollaine said. “I told him no, of course.”

Ison bit down hard on his anger, before nodding. That little dotkohu would do something like this, just to make him look a little more like an idiot in front of Sollaine. And from the way that the Director of the ISB was smiling, it would appear that Flynn had succeeded.

Sollaine smiled thinly. “His second request was far more reasonable,” he commented.

Ison waited, then realized that Sollaine was inviting him to ask what it was. “What?” he asked obediently.

“A dreadnought.”

Ison nearly choked. “A _dreadnought_?” he repeated disbelievingly.

Sollaine smiled again. “As well as two legions of Stormtroopers.” Ison gawked again. “His search for this elusive ‘mover-and-shaker’—and the lost task group, though that is of secondary importance now—will undoubtedly bring him into contact with the Rebellion.” His smile became thin. “And with a dreadnought and two legions he will have enough firepower to deal with them.”

* * *

**_Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_ **

“This is confirmed?” Admiral Thrawn asked, studying the flimsi report.

“It is,” General Vernan confirmed, sitting across from the Chiss.

Thrawn set the flimsi down carefully, every word memorized. He tapped his fingers against the desk softly. It was not a natural habit of his, but was instead a visual indicator to those around him that he was thinking.

The tapping stopped, and Thrawn depressed the stud on the built-in comlink in the desk. “Commander, please bring Admiral Ackbar to my office at his earliest convenience.”

“ _Aye, sir.”_

* * *

“Good morning, Admiral,” Thrawn said in greeting, extending his hand.

Ackbar took it. “Good morning, sir.”

The carved-out room that made up Thrawn’s office vibrated lightly, and a dusting of ice and snow drifted from the roof. “Blasting,” Thrawn explained, sitting. “They’re having trouble digging trenches with all the ice.”

“Ah,” Ackbar said politely. “You wished to see me, Admiral?”

“I did,” Thrawn said. “I have a job for you.”

Ackbar’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded readily.

“General Vernan was just here to see me: His officers have intercepted intelligence indicating that the Empire is sending one of its dreadnoughts, _Resolute_ , in for repair at the Lutrillia Shipyards.” He smiled wanly. “Apparently, they suffered a partial compensator failure when coming out of hyperspace.”

Ackbar grimaced minutely. A compensator failure was one of the many fears every spacer had, and a partial failure was barely any better.

“Yes, it was bloody,” Thrawn said. “But it provides us with an interesting opportunity.” He slid the flimsi report across the desk toward Ackbar.

“A repeat of Kol Huro, Admiral?” Ackbar guessed, before even looking at the report.

“Indeed,” Thrawn said. “The _Resolute_ is escorted by fourteen star destroyers, which will make a direct assault…somewhat interesting.” He smiled humorously. “Thus, we need a _diversion_.” He leaned across the desk a little. “That will be your part.”

* * *

**_Hoth Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_ **

The silvery light from the frozen planet gave the trio of star destroyers an eerie glow as they broke orbit.

Light from sublight engines flitted around the three wedge-shaped warships, as their smaller escorts took up positions around them.

Behind the star destroyers, a line of cruisers and escorts burned steadily for the hyper-limit.

“ _We’ll see you in a week, Admiral,”_ Rear Admiral Ackbar’s holographic figure said.

“So you shall, Admiral,” Thrawn said, saluting slowly.

Ackbar’s figure returned the salute, before disappearing as he cut the connection.

* * *

**_Lutrillia Orbit, Inner Rim, 0 ABY_ **

Flynn could see now why Sollaine had given him _Resolute_.

He’d expected the request to be denied out-of-hand, but to his surprise, Sollaine had been more than open to the idea of loaning him a dreadnought. Sollaine had probably been happy to palm the _Resolute_ off on Flynn.

_Probably Ison’s doing,_ Flynn thought unhappily to himself.

The ship itself was solid enough, and had just finished her repairs in the Lutrillia Shipyards. She was a _Mandator II_ -class dreadnought, built by the Kuat Drive Yards for the Republic Navy during the Clone Wars over twenty years ago. She was nearly obsolete at this point, but could still have gone toe-to-toe with a squadron of _Imperial-_ class star destroyers despite her age. Something that Flynn knew he would likely end up having to do.

The ship was solid, but its captain was less so. The inertial compensator failure had killed much of her crew, including the prior captain, Captain Polan. The replacement who had been sent to assume command was, in Flynn’s opinion, the most stuck-up, arrogant, insolent, stupid, cowardly, individual to have ever commanded a ship.

Unfortunately, Captain Wren was a duke.

The Navy was infested with nobles trying to show the career spacers how a navy should be ‘conducted.’ Most either died or retired quickly, but a few like Wren were stubborn enough to stay in the Navy until they couldn’t be denied a proper command any longer.

Flynn idly imagined himself throttling the noble, even as the Duke continued to blithely speak about a paper he had published about theoretical naval warfare. Every theorem he espoused upon was wrong, of course, and Flynn had to warn off Captain Tankersy with a small shake of his head.

Tankersy was hardly a brilliant tactician, but he had a lifetime’s experience in the Navy to make up for it, and it was clear he did not enjoy Wren’s casual dismissal of the Navy’s way of doing things.

The more Flynn listened to Wren’s seemingly inexhaustible supply of diatribes, the more violent his fantasies of killing the Duke became.

* * *

The _Resolute_ ’s bridge was a study in pre-Imperial design, and Flynn found himself appreciating the design for its raw simplicity. Unlike modern Imperial designs, there was no crew pit, and the commander was actually lower than most of his staffers. The commander’s staffers were also spaced around the commander’s seat, allowing him to be at the literal center of the bridge.

Wren’s personality would undoubtedly make any visits to the bridge a hellish experience, but he didn’t intend on visiting often. If Wren proved to be unbearable, he could always commandeer another ship.

The commander of the task group that had escrted the _Resolute_ to Lutrillia, a humorless man named Admiral John Fletcher, watched the ISB officer complete his inspection of the bridge.

“I’m sorry to take her off of your hands, Admiral,” Flynn said.

Fletcher nodded at the words. “Don’t be,” he said, glancing at Captain Wren pointedly.

Flynn grimaced. “Fair enough.”


	18. Chapter Sixteen

# CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

Every battle Thrawn faught was like a piece of art. A continually changing, decidedly deadly piece of art.

—From _0 BBY-0 ABY: Yavin to Hoth  
_ by Tenten E. Reynolds, Military Historian

 

* * *

 

_**Lutrillia Orbit, Inner Rim, 0 ABY** _

“Contact coming out of hyperspace!” a staffer on the _Resolute_ ’s bridge reported.

“Identify,” Lieutenant Commander Reirdon, the tactical officer, ordered, appearing behind the staffer suddenly.

“Aye, sir,” the staffer responded, waiting on a rough identification based on the emissions profile. It came from the CIC with surprising swiftness. “She’s _Interdictor_ -class, sir. Trailing atmosphere. A _lot_ of atmosphere.”

“ _Interdictor_?” Reirdon asked in surprise. He turned to the executive officer, Commander Donaldson. “Damaged _Interdictor_ just came out of hyperspace, sir.”

“Thank you, Commander, I heard.”

Reirdon clicked his teeth. “Aye, sir.”

“Get me a channel with them,” Donaldson ordered. A moment later, he began speaking in an authoritative tone, “Unknown star destroyer, this is the _Resolute_ , please identify yourself.”

* * *

“— _ease identify yourself,”_ the Imperial Commander, displayed from the holo-emitter, demanded.

“Kark,” Captain Fenn, commander of the _Knight_ , swore. “What are they doing out of drydock?” he demanded to no one. “Echuta,” he swore again. He turned to his executive officer, Commander Sallian. “Get on the horn with the Admiral, let him know that the dreadnought is operational.”

“Unidentified star destroyer, this is your final warning. Identify yourself.”

“Hope this works,” Fenn said to himself, straightening his Imperial uniform and checking to make sure the blood splattered on his face was still fresh.

He motioned for a staffer to open a channel. “This is Lieutenant Commander Alder, star destroyer _Stolid_. We were attacked—”

* * *

_**Shuldene, Expansion Region, 0 ABY** _

The Shuldene fleetyards were on fire, as the forces of Ackbar’s Green Group tore through the system.

Drive flares flitted in great swarms, as starfighters doggedly battled for supremacy. Brilliant bolts of emerald and ruby plasma lanced from one fighter to the next, as well as pinprick drive flares from missiles.

Proton detonations blossomed everywhere around the capital ships, as point-defense grids destroyed incoming missiles and torpedoes. Shields flared to star-bright intensity as bolts of superheated plasma—each powerful enough to vaporize a small city—were exchanged.

“Cruiser Squadron Eight intercepted a message from the fleetyards,” a staffer reported. “It was on the HoloNet.”

The HoloNet was one of the numerous inventions necessary for pan-galactic governance, as it allowed for instantaneous FTL communications to any ship or system with a relay, regardless of distance, while the hypercomms built into larger warships had a much shorter effective range.

“Put it on,” Ackbar ordered.

“Aye, sir. It was only a partial intercept,” the staffer responded.

A moment later, a frightened voice cut through the soft battle-murmur of the bridge, _“—its. This is Governor Tanik—”_ static distorted it for an instant, _“—I am requesting assistance from any nearby Imperial Navy units. We are und—”_ The part of the intercepted message ended.

“Signal Cruiser Squadron Eight to destroy the fleetyards,” Ackbar ordered. They had let the Imperials get their message off, now they had to make sure they didn’t get another one off.

A moment later, the viewscreen showed the ships of Cruiser Squadron Eight suddenly shift their fire away from the system defense units, and directly into the damaged fleetyard.

The shields of the fleetyard failed suddenly, collapsing all at once. Then forty thousand Imperial spacers died when a capital ship-grade proton warhead went off less than a hundred kilometers from the space station.

* * *

**_Deep Space, Inner Rim, 0 ABY_ **

Nearly a full light-hour away from Lutrillia, Thrawn and Blue Group waited in the starless void.

“Fearless _reports ready for combat,”_ a disembodied voice reported over the _Revenge_ ’s bridge speakers.

“Nike _, all sections at battle stations.”_

“ _Rogue Squadron reports ready,_ Revenge _actual.”_ Commander Wedge Antilles’ voice reported.

“ _Cruiser Squadron Four is at general quarters.”_

“Death’s Hand _is ready for action.”_

“ _Frigate Squadron Eleven is cleared for action.”_

There was a moment of silence, and Commander Sheplin stood from a staffer’s readout he had been monitoring. “All ships and units report ready for action, Admiral,” he reported formally.

“Very well, Commander.” Thrawn turned to the flag captain. “Let’s be about it.”

* * *

**_Lutrillia Orbit, Inner Rim, 0 ABY_ **

“ _We are under attack by_ _Rebel units. This is Governor Tanik, of the Shuldene system. I am requesting assistance from any nearby Navy units. We are under attack by several cruisers, and starfighters.”_ The message clicked, then looped again.

Admiral Fletcher listened to the message passively as it was played over the bridge speakers of the _Resolute_ , before finally issuing orders. “All ships are ordered to make best speed to Shuldene,” he said simply. He turned to Flynn. “I hope you don’t mind me stealing the _Resolute_ back for a while, Colonel.”

Flynn didn’t, and had absolutely no way of countermanding the admiral, even if he had wanted to. “Of course not, Admiral.”

Fletcher nodded once. “Pity the _Stolid_ ’s damaged, we could have used her to pin the Rebels in Shuldene.”

* * *

Captain Fenn, commander of the‘ _Stolid_ ,’ watched the squadron of star destroyers disappearing into hyperspace in near-disbelief. The ruse was working.

The timing would be tricky…they didn’t want to snatch one of the star destroyers out of hyperspace with the gravity well generators, only stop the dreadnought from disappearing into hyperspace.

His throat was dry as he watched the last four star destroyers burn toward the hyper-limit, disappearing into hyperspace one after another. The _Resolute_ was following behind closely. With her lower acceleration, she would hit the hyper-limit in a few seconds.

“Now,” Fenn said, his voice rough and dry.

Four gravity well generators suddenly came to life.

* * *

“Kark!” The entire bridge crew of the _Resolute_ seemed to exclaim the expletive at the same moment. All of them were thrown forward, while the inertial compensator screamed in protest of the suddenly arrested motion, as the ship tried vainly to jump into hyperspace.

“What happened?” Captain Wren demanded, pushing himself upright.

“Gravity well, sir,” a staffer reported shakily, realizing how hard the inertial compensator must have been pushed right that fraction of a second. Much harder, and they would have all been dead.

“Where’s it coming from?” Wren demanded.

“The _Stolid_ ,” Fletcher guessed quietly.

A staffer quickly checked. “ _Stolid_ ’s generators are online, and she’s accelerating toward us.” He pursed his lips. “They’ve stopped venting atmosphere.”

Fletcher took a deep breath, “Bring us about, Captain,” he said, “and clear for action.”

“Aye, sir!”

“See if we can raise our escorts on the hypercomm, they might still be in range.”

* * *

Twelve T-65 X-Wings smeared into existence, each ship laden with twenty capital ship-grade torpedoes. The weapons and launch systems were far more sophisticated than the ones used in Kol Huro, but the basic premise had remained unchanged.

“Missile launch on my mark in thirty. Standby,” Commander Wedge Antilles said over the comlink.

“ _Copy,”_ Lieutenant Commander Skywalker answered over the same channel.

Wedge could see the speck of the _Resolute_ far out ahead of the squadron. The massive dreadnought’s engines were facing away from Rogue Squadron, leaving Rogue Squadron without an ‘up-the-kilt shot’ like the one they’d had at Kol Huro. Their current shot was far from ideal, but it was the best they had.

“And…mark.”

Wedge’s ship trembled as twenty torpedoes streaked forward, momentarily blinding Wedge with their drive flares.

* * *

“Multiple fast-movers!” A staffer snapped.

“Oh echuta.” Flynn was shocked to hear the expletive from his own lips.

He watched two-hundred and fifty missiles streak toward the _Resolute_ on the tactical display. They were about to die.


	19. Chapter Seventeen

# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

“The _Mandator_ could take a star’s coronal mass ejection in stride—they’re the finest we have.”

—Kuat Drive Yards Sales Officer  
Speaking at the Core Fleet Review, 42 BBY

 

* * *

 

_**Lutrillia Orbit, Inner Rim, 0 ABY** _

“We have confirmed fast movers, bearing zero-one-three, ten-thousand kilometers. Impact in eight-seven seconds,” the voice of the assistant tactical officer cut through the sounds of panicked staffers.

The situation was developing too fast for the Executive Officer, Captain, or Admiral to control, and it was firmly in the hands of the tactical officers.

“ _All ventral gun decks report cleared for action!”_ a disembodied voice reported over the tactical officer’s headset.

“Designate fast-movers as Sierra-Two, and _Stolid_ as Sierra-One,” Lieutenant Commander Reirdon ordered, his voice calm. He had trained his entire career for just such a situation. “Ventral Turbolaser Batteries One through Eight; load for anti-ship and target Sierra-One.”

“Aye, sir. One through Eight,” the ATO responded automatically, passing the orders on to the gun crews.

“All remaining ventral Turbolaser Batteries; load for point defense and target Sierra-Two.”

* * *

The _Mandator II_ -class dreadnought had not been designed to combat swarms of fast-moving missiles, and had only token point defense systems laid into her hull. But the Republic Navy had come up with an ingenious, albeit primitive, solution to this lack of point defense systems during the Clone Wars.

Turbolasers operated much like smaller blaster cannons, superheating tibanna gas into plasma and accelerating it with electromagnetic coils. But the Republic engineers developed a primitive ferrous sabot that could use a turbolaser’s magnetic accelerators to accelerate a kinetic flak round instead of plasma.

The gun crew of Turbolaser Turret Fifteen used winches and rammers to hoist the half-ton kinetic shells into the breach of the massive turbolaser. The gun crew captain ordered the breach closed, and the cannon elevated to face the incoming missiles.

The disembodied voice of the tactical officer came through the gun crew captain’s headset a moment later: _“All batteries; execute fire orders.”_

* * *

Nearly fifty half-ton flak shells shot out of the mouths of the aging turbolasers, speeding toward the swarm of incoming missiles. The shells’ proximity fuse systems waited patiently for the distance to close.

The dark void suddenly exploded into light as explosively-driven shrapnel swatted scores of missiles away.

* * *

The turbolaser housed in Turbolaser Turret Fifteen had already been reloaded, and the breach had barely closed before the gun crew captain roared for them to fire again.

* * *

“ _Do we engage, Rogue Lead?”_ Lieutenant Commander Skywalker asked over the comm.

Wedge kept his eyes on the field of flak that was destroying sizable chunks of their missile salvo every passing second. “Negative. Maintain position,” he said. He had no wish to tangle with a dreadnought with only a squadron of X-Wings and the _Knight_ to back him up. They were here to confirm the kill; nothing more.

The remnants of their once-sizable salvo finally penetrated the _Resolute_ ’s point defenses, and Wedge had to blink at the sudden brightness that followed. The proton warheads lashed at the shields, visibly buckling the armor beneath the straining shields. Then, suddenly, the light was gone and the _Resolute_ was still there.

Wedge swore softly. There were numerous fires on the starboard ventral hull of the _Resolute_ , and atmosphere flowed freely from portions of the buckled hull.

“ _Is she dead, Lead?”_

“Don’t know yet.”

* * *

“DC crews report we are venting atmosphere on decks one through eighteen—”

“We have fires in decks one through—”

“Engineering says hyperdrive’s karked until—”

The flood of information continued, and the Executive Officer waded through it with precision and finesse. They had been given a bloody nose, but it took more than a few proton warheads to stop the Old Girl.

* * *

Wedge swore softly. The Imperial dreadnought had just taken twenty proton warheads square in the chest, and, as far as he could tell, she was still space-worthy.

He’d failed.

“Come about,” Wedge ordered, “and prepare to go to hyperspace.”

Several thousand kilometers away, the _Knight_ was doing the same; slowly turning about, and getting ready to flee the wounded, but still-dangerous dreadnought.

* * *

“What does CIC say about their exit vectors?” Captain Wren demanded.

“CIC says that Sierra-One, and Sierra’s -Three through -Fifteen, jumped toward the Anoat Sector, sir,” a staffer responded. “CIC gives the Ison and Hoth systems the highest probabilities, sir.”

Admiral Fletcher was silent as he considered the two star systems, bringing them up on his touchpad to study them further. He tapped one of the systems. “Hoth,” he declared. He turned to look at an engineering staffer, “How long do we need to get the hyperdrive online?”

* * *

_**Deep Space, Inner Rim, 0 ABY** _

_There are about seventy-five hundred_ _Stormtroopers aboard those star destroyers,_ General Yanak reflected to himself. _That’s about half as many as my whole Corps._

That many Stormtroopers should have made anyone nervous, and Yanak knew that the Imperial Stormtrooper Corps were the elite of the Empire, but he believed that his Marines were better. It was as fundamental a belief to him as the belief that the Alliance would emerge from this war triumphant.

* * *

“A barbaric tactic,” Commander Sheplin said, wearing a smile that took the barbs out of his comment.

Thrawn nodded, smiling as well. “I grant that to you, Commander.”

The two officers stood on the bridge of the _Revenge_ , watching the distant _Death’s Hand_ tow a small moon, that was well over four times bigger than the star destroyer, into position. The stress from being towed with one tractor beam would have pulled the moon apart, but a cluster of frigates and escorts used their less powerful tractors to keep that from happening.

The moon was just large enough to generate a hyper-limit, making it a perfect stand-in for the _Knight_ and her gravity well generators. It was a very old idea dating back to Xim the Despot, who had used much smaller asteroids to rip his enemies out of hyperspace, though the idea had become impractical with the advent of more sophisticated hyperdrives. The only way to make it work now was to use a _big_ asteroid…or a small moon.

The _Death’s Hand_ slowed to a relative stop, then released its tractor from the small moon. It accelerated away to come abreast of the _Revenge_ and their cruiser escorts.

Thrawn turned to his flag captain. “Begin laying the mines.”

“Aye, sir.”

Squadrons of Y-Wings sortied out of the large hangers mounted under the _Revenge_ and _Death’s Hand_. The Y-Wings accelerated out to the far side of the moon, laying their loads of mines just inside the hyper-limit. The mines were anchored in place with small tractor beams.

“Any moment now,” Sheplin commented.

* * *

Fourteen _Imperial_ -class star destroyers, rushing off to save the Shuldene fleetyards, streaked into existence as they were torn out of hyperspace. The warships shuddered as their inertial compensators struggled to account for the sudden deceleration.

The star destroyers drifted forward with their prior momentum, slamming directly into the wall of mines only a few seconds after exiting hyperspace. A hundred explosions blossomed at once as the interwoven wall of ion and proton mines cut through the shields of the star destroyers.

* * *

“CIC reports that they’re disabled and venting atmosphere,” Sheplin reported.

“Thank you, Commander,” Thrawn said.

Thrawn depressed a stud on his seat, activating a comlink. “You may proceed, General.”

General Yanak’s voice came over the speakers, _“Thank you for the opportunity to kick some Imperial winba, Admiral.”_

“Any time, General.” Thrawn let the stud up, smiling a little. “Flash _Nike_ , _Fearless_ , and the Y-Wings that they are to support the Marines.”

* * *

From what Yanak could tell, the fighting was brutal. It seemed to have devolved to hand-to-hand almost as quickly as the Marines blasted their way aboard the star destroyers, and the subsequent losses sounded awful.

“ _Sir, I really think—”_ Yanak’s aide said over the comlink, looking pale under his vacuum helmet.

“Stow it,” Yanak snapped. He was strapping on slabs of cortosis armor, and a carbine leaned against the assault shuttle’s bulkhead. Despite his aide’s protests, he was going to join the battle.

There was no point to staying away from the battle at this point, as there was no way he could have effectively commanded fourteen boarding operations. The battles were entirely in the hands of his colonels, majors, captains, and lieutenants.

He finished strapping his body armor on and slipped a durasteel vacuum helmet over his head. He picked his carbine up. He was fifty-one, and the equipment, armor, and carbine were heavier than he’d remembered them being during the Clone Wars.

“ _Landing in fifteen,”_ the pilot reported. The shuttle jinked to avoid fire from Stormtroopers who were on the outside of the hull of the star destroyer. A moment later a single Y-Wing cratered the hull right where the Stormtroopers had been with a concusion missile.

The shuttle ducked into the hanger, slamming onto the deck and skidding along for a moment before the hatch opened. _“Go, go, go!”_ the pilot roared.

* * *

_**Deep Space, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

The _Resolute_ streaked through hyperspace, rushing toward Hoth at it’s best speed. The hyperdrive had been brought online after half an hour, and was being constantly monitored by a group of engineers.

A screen on the bridge had been turned into a timer, and it was just passing under four hours. Admiral Fletcher and Captain Wren watched the timer, silently willing it to move faster.

Colonel Flynn was nestled inside the CIC, several decks lower than the bridge, studying his documents and files. The mystery of who was the Rebel mover-and-shaker had been momentarily driven from his mind by the battle at Lutrillia, but he was once again laboring to discover who it was. He had been handed the most magnificent of all leads with the battle at Lutrillia though, as there were very few naval officers who had ever used an _Interdictor_ in such a fashion. He had winnowed his leads down to four men…

On every deck of the _Resolute_ , spacers stood by their action stations. There was no doubt in the minds of anyone that the Rebels would have a few orbital defense craft in the Hoth system, but neither was there any doubt that the _Resolute_ would win.

* * *

**_Hoth Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_ **

Rogue Squadron flashed into existence as they dropped out of hyperspace, their S-Foils dissipating heat from the jump.

Wedge Antilles spoke into his headset, “Dorn Base, this is Rogue Lead.” He paused. “I am requesting an emergency hypercomm transmission to Admiral Thrawn: Tell him we failed.”

* * *

**_Deep Space, Inner Rim, 0 ABY_ **

General Yanak listened to the reports through an earpiece while a Navy corpsman splinted his left arm. It had been shattered by a fragmentation grenade, though he couldn’t feel the pain from it, shot full of drugs like he was. Bacta would be useless in putting his arm back together, and he guessed they were going to have to replace the entire arm with a prosthetic.

Most of the fighting was done, though three star destroyers were still resisting their boarders. The rest of the ships had lost their engineering sections to his Marines and had had no choice but to surrender or be asphyxiated.

A vac-suited figure appeared over him, and Yanak managed a salute with his intact arm. “The ship is secure, Admiral.”

Admiral Thrawn nodded to the Marine. _“So I see,”_ he said over the comlink. The corridor was open to vacuum still. _“We have begun putting skeleton crews aboard.”_

Yanak nodded. “How soon ‘til we move?” he asked.

“ _As soon as possible,”_ Thrawn said simply. _“_ Knight _should have showed up nearly half an hour ago, and I do not want to be jumped by a patrol.”_

Commander Sheplin cut into the channel. _“Pardon me, Admiral,”_ he said. _“_ Revenge _is getting a priority hypercomm for you.”_

“Put it through.”

Thrawn was silent, obviously listening to the hypercomm message. When it was done he turned to Sheplin. _“Flash_ Revenge _to prep my shuttle. Immediately.”_

“What happened?” Yanak asked, as Sheplin switched channels and began issuing orders.

“ _A disaster,”_ Thrawn said simply. _“The_ Resolute _has survived.”_ Thrawn’s expression was focused. _“_ Revenge _and_ Death’s Hand _will escort you to the rendezvous point before proceeding to the Hoth system._ Knight _as well, when she arrives._ _”_ He turned, and began walking away. _“I must see to this myself.”_


	20. Chapter Eighteen

# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

Hoth…I never want to see it again.

—From _The Frozen Hours  
_Captain Jobin Mothma, NRA, Retired

 

* * *

 

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

Admiral Thrawn rode the shuttle down to the surface in silence as he studied the evacuation report on his touchpad.

Sheplin glanced out the port beside him, blinking at the bright streak of a hypersonic ship exiting the atmosphere. The evacuation was already well underway.

The odds that the _Resolute_ could still even jump to hyperspace, let alone find Hoth, was so remote as to seem nearly impossible. But no matter how improbable it might seem, it was still possible, and Thrawn had ordered Dorn Base to be evacuated even before their shuttle even jumped into hyperspace.

The turbulence from the shuttle’s entry into the atmosphere cut out suddenly, and the inertial compensators killed all but a small, persistent tremor.

“ _Time to base is four minutes,”_ the pilot said over the shuttle intercom. _“Standby for maneuvering.”_

Thrawn shut his pad off and grabbed the nearest handhold. The chances of the maneuvering being anything more than slight course corrections were minuscule, but the pilot was in a hurry.

* * *

“Welcome, Admiral,” an Army first lieutenant said over the flying snow, as the shuttle doors closed behind Thrawn and Commander Sheplin.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“General Trantor has instructed me to take you down below as soon as possible. The General and Senator Mothma are waiting for you.”

“Lead on,” Thrawn said.

As the evacuation proceeded, the work on the defensive lines reached new fevered heights. Parties of men hastily blew or scraped out a labyrinth of trenches, complimenting the few trenches and defensive lines that had already been built.

The pickets saluted the three officers, shivering in the freezing wind despite their heavy cold-weather coats. The pickets were only supposed to act as a screening force, but they had scraped out slip-trenches in the snow anyway.

Past the sentries was the first true defensive line, where rows of empty trenches and ferrocrete bunkers, with ominous looking blaster cannons poking their noses out of firing slits, lined the approaches to the base. Originally, the designers had wanted to keep the artillery pieces mounted in one-man turrets to give them a greater firing arc, but Trantor had flatly rejected the idea and snidely suggested they read Xim’s _Maxims of War_.

The second line was just as heavily defended as the first, but was much shorter, having only two-thirds the length of the first line. Kinetic field artillery was dug in behind the second line, configured to fire over the second and first lines.

The third line was the most carefully designed of them all. The lines were much wider than the second or first, designed to handle a sudden influx of shattered troops. Two-story ferrocrete bunkers studded the last line, designed to be able to fire over the heads of the troops in the first and second lines. In addition, powered-down tanks stood ready to dash forward and blunt whatever assault tried to batter down their door.

The hanger was dug in exceptionally well, able to shrug off a direct hit from a main-battery turbolaser, the designers insisted. The hanger would be a primary target, assuming the commander who carried out the assault had half a brain.

A sizable portion of the Navy’s strike-craft had been reassigned to groundside assignments months prior, reconfigured to carry out close air support and air superiority missions in the cold atmosphere.

The entry of Dorn Base was sheltered from the snowstorms, having been built so the entryway was facing opposite of the prevailing winds and the most likely angle of an attack.

The lieutenant who had been guiding them saluted, before heading back into the storm. He had to get back to his men on the first line.

The lift doors opened at the approach of Thrawn and Sheplin, and the latter depressed a stud on the control panel.

As the lift doors closed behind them, Sheplin felt his feet become soaked with the near-freezing slush on the floor of the lift. A few Navy deckhands on ground assignment would probably muck it out when they reached the main level.

* * *

General Trantor was clothed in arctic gear, with only his face exposed to the cold. He shook Thrawn’s hand as the admiral and Sheplin entered the command center.

“It’s good to see you, Admiral.”

“And you, General.”

The two men glanced at the tactical displays, and Trantor spoke, “I assume Mothma will want you to assume overall command.”

Thrawn hesitated, before saying, “That is likely, General.”

“I need to know, straight-up, Admiral, how much ground experience you have,” Trantor said. “I’m not going to risk my men to command of a spacer on the ground—not unless he has a lot of experience.” He snorted. “Just like you wouldn’t let me command your star destroyers without some experience in space.”

Thrawn nodded. “Very well, General,” he said finally. “I have experience on the ground…though I admit to having less than you. I will assume overall command, but only if you will remain in command of the Army units.”

Trantor was silent for a moment, surprised at the offer from the Navy man. “Thank you, Admiral,” he said.

A subtle signal from Sheplin brought Thrawn’s attention to the lift, and he saluted as the lift doors opened and revealed Mon Mothma.

“Admiral,” she said, greeting him. “It is good to see you. Your campaign was a success?”

“Despite this disaster, yes, Senator,” Thrawn responded.

She nodded, “May I speak with you in private, Admiral?” she asked, gesturing to the lift.

“Of course.”

Sheplin began to follow his admiral, but Mothma stopped him. “Only the Admiral, Commander.”

Sheplin nodded in apology. “Of course, Senator.”

Trantor and Sheplin watched the pair disappear into the lift, and Sheplin smiled a little sadly at the sight of the Admiral and the Senator together.

* * *

_**Hoth Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

The orbital defense craft _Isaih_ orbited slowly around the ice planet, her engines at standby. The defense craft was one of Rear Admiral Ackbar’s ideas that had been given form; a frigate with a cruiser’s firepower laid into its tiny hull. It would survive all of two seconds of enemy fire, but before it was destroyed it would give whatever it had shot at a very bloody nose.

“Contact coming out of hyperspace,” a staffer aboard the _Isaih_ reported tensely.

“Challange them,” Commander Youlan ordered.

“Aye, sir.”

The tension on the bridge was palpable, as the crew prepared themselves mentally for combat. While the idea of the defense craft was sound, serving aboard them was one of the most dangerous positions in the Navy.

The staffer blew out a stream of air, tension disappearing from his shoulders. “She’s the _Dac_ , sir, Admiral Ackbar’s shuttle.”

Commander Youlan sighed and slumped against the command seat. They could live for a bit longer, then.

* * *

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

Admiral Ackbar saluted Thrawn, as he entered the command center, before shaking the Admiral’s proffered hand.

“I’m sorry to call you back from the rendezvous point, Admiral,” Thrawn said, releasing Ackbar’s hand.

“Captain Fenn is more than capable of keeping the boogers off of your prizes,” Ackbar said.

“True,” Thrawn agreed. “Providing we survive this, we may need to promote him.”

“Providing we live, sir.”

Thrawn nodded. “I will need you organizing the remainder of the evacuation,” he said. “Trantor has done well enough, but he’s an Army officer; and doesn’t know what is important to the Navy.”

“And I do.”

“You do,” Thrawn confirmed. “And the Navy is arguably what is most important to the Alliance right now…among other things,” he added, glancing at the edge of the room.

Ackbar followed his glance and saw Mon Mothma standing at the edge of the room, watching the Army and Navy officers work. He nodded. “I understand, Admiral.”

“Admiral?” Commander Sheplin asked from a tactical table. “The _Resolute_ just came out of hyperspace.”

* * *

_**Hoth Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

Even as the Imperial dreadnought dropped out of hyperspace, a message from the Alliance base flitted through the star system:

“ _Spacers, Marines, and soldiers of the Alliance to Restore the Republic,”_ the voice that spoke was powerful, strong, and carrying only a slight accent. _“We are on the eve of a battle more terrible than many of you can imagine, and here, on this ground, we will fight it._

“ _The Emperor does not expect us to halt his cruel tyranny, and I understand his point of view: We are few, and his legions are endless. But we will stop him. It may not happen on this field. It may not happen in these skies, or even in this decade. But it_ will _happen._

“ _Stand to your stations, by your brothers and comrades, and hold to your duty…may the Force be with us all, at this vital crossroads.”_

A moment later, the official orders were issued over encrypted channels:

 

* * *

 

ALLIANCE NAVAL COMMAND

Room 28, Dorn Base, Hoth

 

9/22/36

 

GENERAL ORDERS:

NUMBER 8922:

 

 

٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭

 

All Alliance Naval units within Hoth System, Outer Rim, are directed to withdraw with all speed to hyperspace coordinates 41.8123504,63.90273,3.1203.

All Alliance Naval units are directed to avoid action.

 

٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭

 

BY COMMAND OF ADMIRAL THRAWN

 

 

OFFICIAL:

 

William Sheplin,

Commander, Alliance Navy

Adjutant

 

* * *

* * *

 

OFFICE OF THE

ALLIANCE MARINE CORPS

Room 29, Dorn Base, Hoth

 

9/22/36

 

GENERAL ORDERS:

NUMBER 782:

 

 

٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭

 

All Marine Corps personnel on the surface of Hoth, Outer Rim, are directed to support and assist nearby Alliance Army units.

Brigadier General Maeli issues the following personal order: ‘‘Kill the karkers.’’

 

٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭

 

BY COMMAND OF THE OFFICE OF THE COMMANDANT OF THE ALLIANCE MARINE CORPS

 

 

OFFICIAL:

 

Thomas Carthy,

Colonel, Alliance Marine Corps

Acting Adjutant

 

* * *

* * *

 

ALLIANCE ARMY HEADQUARTERS

Room 40, Dorn Base, Hoth

 

9/22/36

 

GENERAL ORDERS:

NUMBER 7190:

 

 

٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭

 

The 3rd Division, Hoth, Outer Rim, is directed to assume invasion positions. All units of the 3rd Division are ordered to hold assigned positions until otherwise directed by Alliance Army Headquarters.

Estimated enemy landing between 1400 and 1800 local time. All units are directed to take no prisoners.

 

٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭٭

 

BY COMMAND OF GENERAL RICHARD A. TRANTOR

 

 

OFFICIAL:

 

John Tapton,

Lieutenant Colonel, Alliance Army

Adjutant

* * *

 


	21. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad you folks seem to be enjoying the story thus far, and I hope you like this chapter as well!

# CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

 **Interviewer:** “Xim wrote that all warriors fight for someone or something. What do you fight for, Commander?”

 **Commander Antilles:** “…I fight because it’s what I can do.”

 **Interviewer:** “Is that the only reason?”

 **Commander Antilles:** “No, but that’s all I’ll tell you.”

—From _The Antilles Interviews  
_with Commander Wedge Antilles, NRN, MIA

 

* * *

 

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

Wedge Antilles climbed into his X-Wing, slipping his flight helmet on while Lieutenant Thornestrapped him into his flight seat.

Within minutes of Thrawn’s speech, and the receipt of the following orders, the entire strike-fighter compliment of Dorn Base was in various stages of readiness. The sound from their engines was nearly deafening.

Lieutenant Thorne finished strapping Wedge down, and saluted. “Ready to go, sir.”

Wedge nodded. He wanted to say something, _anything_ , to her, before she climbed down the ladder. It might be the last time he saw her, and…

“I’ll be back,” he said, returning her salute, feeling foolish for saying something as simple as that.

She stared into the darkened visor of his helmet for a moment, making him uncomfortable. “I’ll hold you to it, Wedge Antilles,” she said. Before he could say anything else, she was gone, climbing down the ladder.

He swallowed, then toggled a switch. The cockpit canopy dropped down around him, sealing him off from the noisy hanger deck.

He gave a thumbs-up to the tractor operator, and the man nodded in return. The operator moved his tractor ahead, and the X-Wing rolled forward as it followed the chugging machine to the lift.

Rogue Squadron fit in its entirety on the lift, and Wedge nodded to his squadron-mates. When they hit the flight strip, cold-suited deckhands maneuvered the X-Wings into takeoff positions.

The open mouth of the enclosed landing strip was in front of his ship, at the mouth of the strip, and he could see snow being driven by the wind outside.

The voice of the Flight Deck Officer came over Wedge’s comlink, _“X-Wing one-niner-two, clear forward, nav green, interval check, thrust positive and steady. Good hunting, Wedge.”_

The landing strip blurred around Wedge for a moment, and then he was in the open air. He toggled his engines wide-open and made a graceful arc north as he gained altitude. His squadron launched one by one behind him.

* * *

_**Hoth Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

“The Rebel orbital defense craft have exited the system, sir,” a staffer on the bridge of the _Resolute_ reported from his sensor station.

“Very well,” Captain Wren said, cursing the misfortune of coming out of hyperspace on the wrong side of the planet to catch the Rebel fleet. They could have smashed every one of the Rebel ships.

Admiral Fletcher shrugged at the report. The orbital defense craft would have only been a small prize. “Move us into position over the base, and begin the bombardment,” Fletcher ordered.

“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer responded.

The admiral and captain watched the massive bolts of plasma smash into the surface of the planet. The Rebels would soon be no more.

Wren smiled, perhaps a quick end to the Rebellion would wipe Colonel Flynn’s permanently-smug smile off of his face…though it might add to it, as Flynn would doubtlessly take credit for the operation.

Minutes slid by slowly, and the rain of plasma continued. Bolt after bolt slammed directly into the base, each shot turning into a flash of light as it impacted a shield. The onslaught could have slagged a star destroyer, but the Rebels’ shield held.

Fletcher sighed, they were going to have to do it the old-fashioned way; that was obvious. The two legions of Stormtroopers—who had been assigned to Colonel Flynn and the ISB—would be very useful. “Prepare for ground assault,” Fletcher ordered the communications staffer, “And inform Colonel Flynn that we’ll need to steal his troopers.”

* * *

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

“Let’s see if this works,” Ackbar said quietly, as the rain of plasma ceased suddenly. He tapped his comlink. “Breakout One is a go.”

Two transports lifted up out of the hanger, and quickly accelerated away, slashing through the frigid atmosphere at dangerously high speeds as they climbed into the sky.

Per Thrawn’s unspoken orders, Senator Mothma was aboard the first available transport, and Ackbar’s eyes followed it as it clawed for altitude as quickly as possible.

* * *

_**Hoth Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

Flynn sat beside Wren and Fletcher on the bridge of the _Resolute_ , watching the billowing clouds of steam from where the Rebels’ shield generators were venting excess waste heat.

“Two contacts, separating from the base,” a staffer reported. “Exiting the atmosphere and heading relative north at high speed.”

“Evacuation transports,” Flynn deduced rapidly. “Destroy them,” he ordered calmly.

Wren and Fletcher both bristled at the sudden order, but no man, regardless of noble blood or connections in the Admiralty, defied the ISB. “Yes, Colonel.”

* * *

Turbolaser Turret 32 turned silently to face the planet below, twin barrels glaring at the icy surface. The gun captain barked an order, and two massive bolts of plasma lanced away as the turbolasers crashed backward in their gun carriages.

Two gas canisters flew out of the rear of the turbolasers, slamming into the bulkheads of the turret.

“Load!” the gun captain barked, his voice rough from the lingering smell of tibanna gas, and unnaturally loud in the tight confines of the turret.

The gun crew lifted two fresh canisters, and when they began feeding them into the turret the overhead lighting cut out suddenly. For a moment they froze in the darkness, before the emergency lighting finally kicked in.

* * *

The dull red of the emergency lightening flickered on, in the bridge.

“What happened?” Wren snarled at the nearest staffer.

The staffer’s computer console was dead, and the staffer could only guess while his computer reset itself. “It could be a reactor failure, sir,” the staffer said, swallowing. “Or an ion weapon.”

Wren’s teeth clicked audibly.

Flynn sighed. “How soon can we get main power back online?” he asked.

A staffer who served as the liaison between the bridge and engineering shifted under Flynn’s gaze. “Maybe a half an hour, Colonel,” the staffer said nervously. “If it was an ion weapon, it’ll be a lot longer.”

Wren snarled. “What _can_ we do without main power?” he demanded.

“We can launch our fighter compliment,” Flynn said, stating the obvious, beating Admiral Fletcher to it. Flynn’s patience with the noble captain was wearing thin, “And our landing shuttles should still be operational.”

* * *

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

One of the evacuation transports blossomed into a ball of flame, as twin turbolaser bolts sliced through its shields instantly. The second transport rocked in the shockwave, but survived.

No further plasma bolts came, and the remaining shuttle rushed through the atmosphere, climbing higher all the while.

“What happened?” Ackbar asked, his tone focusing all of the rage he felt toward the nearest staffer.

The staffer swallowed, but met his gaze levelly. “There was a power fluctuation, sir, in the ion cannon fire control circuits.” He swallowed again. “It took them a moment to get it tracked down…they did manage to disable the Imperial dreadnought.”

Ackbar nodded, closing his eyes. Well over a thousand men were dead, vaporized by the bolts of plasma that had torn their transport apart, and there was nothing he could do to bring them back.

“Understood,” he said finally. He took his comlink out again. “Breakout Two is a go,” he added flatly.

Two more shuttles roared out of the hanger.

* * *

_**Hoth Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

The crippled _Resolute_ hung in orbit, running lights off, as thousands of engineers labored feverishly to get main power online again.

Twelve-hundred specks detached from her hangers, streaming out into space, like water from a fountain. The specks organized themselves into flights, then squadrons, then wings, as the hundreds of TIE Fighters steadily drove toward the surface of the planet, trailed by a swarm of landing craft…

* * *

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

“Hostiles have entered the atmosphere, sir,” the ground operations command officer reported to Thrawn.

Thrawn nodded, his eyes fixed to the tactical displays of the command center, “Understood,” he responded. “Get me a line to General Trantor.”

“Aye, sir.”

The holographic representation of the Army general rose out of the holo-emitter. He was in full combat gear, but that was to be expected; he was near the first defensive line. “Imperial troops will be landing momentarily, General,” Thrawn informed him.

An explosion rocked the ground around Trantor, but he nodded calmly. _“Their air cover’s giving us some difficulties right now, Admiral, but we’ll be ready.”_

“Very well.”

The holographic representation flickered, then died as Trantor cut his end of the line with a salute.

“Line from Admiral Ackbar, sir.”

“Put it through,” Thrawn ordered.

Another figure rose out of the holographic display. _“Admiral,”_ Ackbar said. _“I don’t dare launch another pair of transports,”_ he said. _“Imperial fighters are everywhere.”_

“I understand, Admiral,” Thrawn responded. “How many Breakouts were successful?”

“ _We’ve evacuated all unarmed Navy personnel, and twenty-eight percent of armed Navy personnel,”_ Ackbar reported.

“Excellent,” Thrawn nodded.

Ackbar glanced at something beyond the field of the holographic pickups. _“We lost one transport in the first Breakout,”_ he said quietly.

Thrawn was deathly silent for a moment. “Which?” he demanded.

“ _I don’t know Admiral,”_ Ackbar said simply.

Thrawn was silent again. “Understood.”

Ackbar nodded, and the holographic display powered down.

Thrawn turned to the nearest communications officer. “Scramble every airspeeder and have them link up with our air cover,” Thrawn said, his voice colder than Mandalorian steel.


	22. Chapter Twenty

# CHAPTER TWENTY

 

The Battle of Hoth was single-handedly responsible for the eventual retirement of the TIE line of starfighters from Imperial service. The ships were—in the hands of a skilled pilot—dangerous, but were utterly outclassed in-atmosphere by more sophisticated strike-craft, such as the  T-65.

—From _0 BBY-0 ABY: Yavin to Hoth  
_ by Tenten E. Reynolds, Military Historian

 

* * *

 

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

The skies seemed to be alive with TIE Fighters. There were so many that Wedge didn’t even try counting them.

Flying in an atmosphere was about as different from spaceflight as was possible. For one thing, it consumed ludicrous amounts of fuel; and for the second, you had to worry about crashing into the ground.

Much more complicated.

Wedge had never heard of a dogfight taking place in an atmosphere, but it was as messy and chaotic as he would have expected it to be. Alliance strike-fighters and airspeeders tangled with the Imperial TIEs that had entered the atmosphere, whirling and tumbling in an all-out brawl, with tactics taking a back seat to raw instinct and guts.

TIE Fighters were among some of the greatest light interceptors ever designed, but they had been designed as a pure-bred space fighter, and the designers had never even considered the likelihood of atmospheric combat.

The X-Wings were getting the better of the unshielded TIEs, using their own shields to form aerodynamic profiles that allowed them to accelerate to ludicrous speeds, leaving the ungainly Imperial fighters at a significant disadvantage. The large twin solar panels of the TIEs—which had made perfect sense in non-atmospheric flight—acted as large fins in an atmosphere, making them sluggish and unresponsive in addition to slow.

Yet, whatever disadvantage the TIEs had in handling and speed was made up for by their numbers.

Four TIEs dropped in behind Wedge, and brilliant bolts of emerald plasma lanced into his shields. He dropped his full weight onto his port etheric rudder pedal, and his ship swung sharp around.

* * *

**_Hoth Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_ **

“Squadron leaders form up on me,” Wing Leader Crunie ordered into his headset pickup. “Do not engage Rebel fighters in-atmosphere if possible.”

“ _Copy, Wing Leader.”_

Too many of their comrades in the first wave had rushed into the atmosphere, and were currently in various stages of blowing up. They had to do this with some semblance of tactics, or they were going to find themselves at the mercy of the more aerodynamic Rebel fighters.

He reached out with his left hand, adjusting the sensitivity of the etheric rudder.

He and the majority of his pilots were flying a TIE/TN, which the pilots called a ‘TIE-Tin,’ and whoever designed it must have been a madman. On flimsi, it seemed like a pretty straight-forward improvement of the Imperial TIE/LN, with the TIE-Tins possessing a higher acceleration and slightly heavier armament than the standard TIE. But, in practice, they were twitchy and over-responsive, and nearly universally hated by the pilots.

Just one more example of how the New Navy’s high-minded concepts didn’t translate well into the real world.

Below the Imperial pilots, in the atmosphere, the remnants of the first wave of TIEs were getting torn apart.

* * *

**_Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_ **

Wedge rolled in behind of a TIE and calmly squeezed the firing stud on his control stick. The TIE blew apart as the plasma bolts sheared its starboard solar panel off, and Wedge’s X-Wing buffeted for a moment in the turbulence from the explosion.

He glanced at his sensor readouts. The majority of the remaining Imperial fighters were staying out of the atmosphere, inviting the Rebel pilots to a fight on their own ground.

Wedge smiled tightly. _No thanks, Imps. We’re fine right where we are,_ he thought.

Blaster fire lanced over his starboard S-Foil, and he instantly jerked the control stick down and to the right. “One on my tail,” he said, adding his voice to the confusion that passed for a squadron-wide channel.

“ _On it, Wedge,”_ Luke Skywalker’s voice came over the comlink.

Wedge dove toward the ground, flattening out bare meters above the smooth snow, before pulling up and to starboard in a wide loop.

The TIE tried to follow, but bolts from an X-Wing tore through its cockpit, snapping both solar panels off of the craft. The twin panels twirled like leaves in the wind, as they fell to the ground.

“Thanks, Luke,” Wedge said.

“ _Someone’s got to keep you Cors out of trouble,”_ Luke said over the radio, referring to the fact that the majority of the fliers in Rogue Squadron were Corellian.

Wedge grinned for a moment. “Whatever you say.”

* * *

The pilot of the Imperial MAAT gunship swore, his hands squeezing the controls until his knuckles went white.

Whatever air cover he’d been promised in the briefing hadn’t arrived, or it had arrived and been promptly blasted out of the sky by the Rebels. The Rebels that had dispatched his promised air cover swarmed his gunship from every direction, and bolts of plasma tore into his armored fuselage.

Another explosion slammed the gunship sideways, and alarms screamed at the pilot from the instrument panel. The control stick locked to port, and wouldn’t respond as he tried pulling it to starboard.

The snowy horizon twirled around him as the gunship went into a flat spin, shedding altitude and pieces of fuselage every second.

“Everybody hang on!” he roared over the alarms.

The gunship slammed into the snow, shearing the lower wings off instantly with a shriek of tortured metal. An instant later the ship flipped up and over.

Stormtroopers kicked their way out of the remains of the gunship, and one trooper crawled forward to where the cockpit had been.

The cockpit was gone, flattened when the full weight of the ship had crushed it against the icy ground. The Stormtrooper grimaced under his helmet, before turning away from the pulpy remains of the pilot.

“ _Lieutenant bought it,”_ the sergeant said over their built-in comlinks.

“What’s the plan then?” the Stormtrooper who had seen the pilot asked, crawling out of the burning ship.

“ _Our orders, trooper.”_

* * *

The initial wave of troop gunships floundered against the swarms of Alliance starfighters and airspeeders, barely dipping into the atmosphere before being assailed from every direction.

Scores of ships burst into flames, spiraling toward the ground as hard-faced men fought to keep them in the air.

The survivors of the chaotic crash landings pulled themselves out of their burning craft, only to be strafed by ever more Alliance airspeeders.

* * *

_**Hoth Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

“Impossible,” Wren said flatly, glaring at the man in front of him.

The staffer who’d reported the situation on the ground swallowed quickly. “Nevertheless, sir, the Rebel ships have destroyed our air cover, and our foothold is tenuous at best…several wings of fighters are refusing to enter the atmosphere, it’s so bad.”

Wren clicked his teeth in frustration. “Contact the Rebels,” he said, grinding the sentence out with difficulty. Flynn and Fletcher would not approve, but the arrogant Colonel was in the hanger, boarding a landing ship, and Admiral Fletcher was seeing the Colonel off.

* * *

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

“Message from the Imperial dreadnought, Admiral,” a staffer reported.

Thrawn did not look up from the tactical map he was surveying. Alliance and Imperial lines were represented in false color, with the Imperial units marked in shades of crimson, while the Alliance units were marked by gradations of blue. Imperial units had made little headway, blunted by the versatile Alliance air cover. Despite these initial successes, Trantor refused to allow his men to leave their defensive lines to attack.

“Put it through to my console,” Thrawn ordered, without looking up. In the half-hour since the opening bombardment, he’d grown increasingly cold to everyone around him. Sheplin had only rarely seen him like this.

The staffer blinked at the order. Thrawn and Alliance Intelligence had gone to enormous lengths to keep his existence a secret, going so far as to claim responsibility for the terror bombing that ‘killed’ him…

Thrawn finally looked up, prompted by the staffer’s delay. “Put it through to my console, Lieutenant,” he said, his glowing eyes steady on the young man’s face.

“Aye, sir.”

A holographic figure rose from the console, and Thrawn turned to face it.

“ _I am Captain Wren, commander of the_ Resolute _.”_

Thrawn’s face remained a cold mask. “I am Admiral Thrawn,” he said, voice colder and harder than any the young lieutenant had ever heard.

* * *

_**Hoth Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

Armitage Wren had never been so terrified as he was in that instant. The holo-emitter only enhanced the alien’s natural features, making it look as though a flat sheet of durasteel had sprouted thick eyebrows, a nose, and eyes. Fiery, burning eyes.

Wren swallowed. He’d heard more stories about Thrawn than any man, with every story an homage to his dazzling intellect, his unwavering dedication, and his singular conviction…and now every one of those qualities was arrayed against him.

_How is he alive?_

“ _I assume you have made contact to demand my surrender.”_ The sentence wasn’t a question, but a cold statement. Thrawn’s voice was deeper than Wren would have assumed, and carried a faint alien accent.

“That is correct,” Wren said, managing to keep his voice level, even if his hands were shaking. “You and your terrorist band have no recourse but surrender. The combined might of the Ninth Fleet is on its way to snuff out your resistance.”

“ _I doubt that,”_ Thrawn said simply. _“Given the continued lack of communications to any friendly forces, I would assume you have contacted me out of desperation.”_

The holographic figure of Thrawn turned to a figure outside of the pickup range, before turning back to Wren. _“Regardless of your reasoning, and irregardless of the number of my enemies, I would give you the same response:”_ Thrawn smiled slightly, and Wren shivered as he saw the predatory look it cast on his features, _“No.”_

The shimmering figure of Thrawn collapsed into the holo-emitter, and Wren closed his eyes, willing his body to stop shaking. “Put every fighter we have in-atmosphere.” He ordered, his voice wavering.

“Sir, they won’t—”

“I don’t care if you have to threaten, blackmail, or lie!” Wren shouted. “Get them _in the atmosphere_!”


	23. Chapter Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I didn't post yesterday. I don't tend to do that on Sundays...sorry again. As per usual, I'll be uploading two chapters this time, to make up for it. Enjoy!

# CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

 

 **Interviewer:** “Have you ever been downed, Commander?”

 **Commander Antilles:** “No.”

 **Interviewer:** “Why? Was it luck, or skill?”

 **Commander Antilles:** “Luck.”

—From _The Antilles Interviews  
_with Commander Wedge Antilles, NRN, MIA

 

* * *

 

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

Wing Leader Crunie had two of those blasted X-Wings on his tail, and there was nothing he could do but buy a little more time.

His etheric rudder was sluggish in Hoth’s atmosphere, a stark contrast to how twitchy it had been in space. He leaned into the port pedal hard, feeling the G-forces tug at him as the inertial compensators struggled to keep up.

One X-Wing overshot, failing to correct for the sudden shift in direction Crunie had taken, but the other stayed right on him doggedly.

He kept leaning into the rudder hard. _Just a bit more…_

“Now!” he barked.

* * *

Wedge Antilles stayed right on the tail of the TIE Fighter, seeing Luke overshoot out of the corner of his vision.

Whoever was in this TIE was good.

“ _Coming around again, Wedge,”_ Luke said, taking his X-Wing around in a tight arc.

“Copy,” Wedge said, eyes locked on the TIE…

“Wedge, break!” Luke’s warning blared in Wedge’s ears.

Wedge jammed his control stick to starboard, putting all of his weight into the starboard etheric rudder pedal at the same time.

A concussion missile streaked past his canopy, missing his ship by twenty meters. The proximity fuse had been set for fifteen. The missile’s velocity was too great to turn back to Wedge without tearing itself apart, and it wobbled slightly as it searched for a new target.

The missile steadied suddenly, and Wedge’s stomach convulsed in horror as he realized what it’s new target was.

“Break, Luke!” he barked into his comm pickup.

Then the missile exploded.

* * *

Flynn shifted his grip on the gunship bay’s handle, as the ship plummeted into the atmosphere. The load of Stormtroopers gave him curious glances under their helmets, wondering why an ISB colonel was going to the surface in the middle of a battle.

Flynn wasn’t even sure why he wanted to be on the surface, to witness the brutality, but he hadn’t thought when boarding the gunship—only acted.

One Stormtrooper swung the side-doors of the gunship open, seizing the E-Web blaster mounted in a swivel turret. The gunner began spitting plasma fire at the ground, then swiveled the blaster up sharply as a Rebel ship shot past, his bolts snapping at the airspeeder.

The gunship shuddered as a missile exploded close by, but every Stormtrooper remained seated or holding onto the rails, their expressions hidden.

The door gunner firing the E-Web was blown back from the blaster as a missile exploded beside the gunship. Half of his armor had been blown apart, and he screamed in pain while his comrades quickly took his helmet off and began checking his wounds. A piece of superheated shrapnel had torn through the helmet, and burned the Stormtrooper’s face.

Flynn wanted to look away at the sight of the soldier’s ruined face, but couldn’t.

* * *

To Luke’s great surprise, he wasn’t dead. He may have been surprised by that fact, but he didn’t mind.

The concussion missile had come out of nowhere, and he suspected that only Ben Kenobi and Wedge’s frantic warnings were the only reason he hadn’t been turned into a messy streak spread over a five-kilometer area.

“Ben?” he questioned, wondering if the dead Jedi was still with him. There was no answer.

He felt about two inches shorter, but the ejection seat had done its job, rocketing him away just as the missile sheared half of his port S-Foil off.

His greatest concern this instant, as he floated to the ground with a parachute, was avoiding being picked off by some hotshot TIE pilot, and avoiding freezing to death on the ground. The first case seemed remarkably unlikely, though the second seemed only too real.

His prior altitude, and the ejection, had put him well over a thousand meters into the atmosphere before his parachute opened, and he had more than enough time, as he drifted back down, to watch the raging battle around him.

R2-D2 drifted by, his own parachute deployed. He chittered something, swiveling his photoreceptors left and right. Most likely he was simply annoyed that his nice, new X-Wing had been shot out from under him.

Luke hardly even noticed Artoo’s annoyed chittering, as he scanned the sky for friendly craft. He didn’t spot Wedge’s X-Wing right away, but after a few moments, Antilles’ gold-streaked X-Wing rocketed by.

Wedge tipped his S-Foils at Luke, obviously having seen him, then flipped his ship to starboard, chasing after the TIE Fighter that had downed Luke. A burst of plasma from Wedge’s cannons atomized the TIE’s cockpit, and Wedge rocketed through the debris from it.

* * *

Crunie knew his time was up. His wingman, who’d just launched a missile at that one X-Wing, was dead, his ship a burning wreck plummeting toward the ground, and Crunie guessed he would be following him any minute…

That same dogged X-Wing was behind him, tearing up the atmosphere as it chased after him, ionizing streaks of atmosphere with every shot from its quadruple blaster cannons.

He kept frantically maneuvering, trying in vain to buy a few more moments of life…and then the cockpit exploded around him.

But he was alive.

He didn’t remember doing it, but he must have pulled the lever on the ejection seat, as he was now drifting toward the ground, his parachute having deployed automatically. Just like the Rebel pilot who’d been downed by his wingman, he’d survived a brush with death.

He sagged back in his seat, eyes closed, as he realized how statistically unlikely his survival had been: The odds of successfully bailing out of a damaged TIE was one-in-ten, and that went down to thirty-to-one when flying in an atmosphere. By all rights, he should be dead.

* * *

Luke dug R2-D2 out of the soft snow he’d landed in, and hoped fervently that he wouldn’t have to carry the droid all the way back to Dorn Base.

R2-D2 was giving a startlingly accurate electronic imitation of muttering, but he didn’t seem to mind being dug and dragged out of the snow.

“You’ve got to lose weight,” Luke grunted while dragging the droid out of the final bit. He tipped R2-D2 onto his wheels, and the chittering droid tested rolling forward, only to find they packed with the thin layer of loose snow as he moved.

Luke sighed. “There’s times you can be a real pain,” he said, tipping the droid back over, and rigging line from the parachute to drag the droid with.

R2-D2 whistled sharply for nearly a minute at Luke’s comment, and Luke grimaced in response. “Fair enough.”


	24. Chapter Twenty-Two

# CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 

I have studied the Force for forty years, and I do not claim to understand it; I merely accept it, and try to live with it.

—From _Visions of the Jedi  
_by Captain Luke Skywalker, NRN, Retired

 

* * *

 

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

Luke figured that since the Stormtroopers he’d seen while in the air were heading west, he should do the same—though he intended on being well ahead of the Imperials; spending the war in a prison, or getting shot, wasn’t an ideal way to end his involvement in the war.

R2-D2 was less of a burden than he’d expected, and the thin layer of loose snow was an excellent surface for dragging the squat astromech droid—though it still wasn’t _easy_. His continual chirping was beginning to get on Luke’s nerves, too.

The battle in the air was more subdued now, it seemed. The Alliance strike-fighters were herding the few remaining TIEs into kill-zones where they could be promptly dealt with, and the Alliance was firmly in command of the sky.

He crested over a ridge of ice and snow, grunting from the exertion of dragging R2-D2 along with him.

He rested for a minute at the top, gathering his breath, and getting ready for the rest of the walk to the Alliance lines. He was about seven kilometers out, and he had walked nearly two already.

“Hello!” a voice called.

Luke turned toward the direction it had come from. It sounded distant, but loose snow deadened sound much faster than an uninformed person might guess.

Finally, he found the source of the sound, and he froze for an instant at the sight of a black Imperial flight suit.

He dropped the line he’d been towing R2-D2 with and clawed at the flap over his sidearm. The pistol raised level with the figure, and the man’s hands flew up.

“Woah!” the Imperial pilot yelled, no helmet was on his head to stifle the words. “Easy now!”

“Standoff!” Luke ordered, his voice raised. To his relief, it wasn’t quavering.

“Hold on!” the pilot said. “Don’t shoot for pring’s sake!”

“Then stop moving!” Luke ordered.

The Imperial stopped moving.

“Do you have a sidearm?” Luke demanded, trusting that the other’s distinctive Corellian accent meant he adhered to that culture’s strong sense of honor.

“I do,” the pilot answered without hesitation.

“Take it out slowly, two fingers only.”

The Imperial pilot slowly moved his left hand down to his holster. He undid the flap, and pulled the stubby pistol out with two fingers as directed.

“Throw it.”

The pilot didn’t even pause to think, and threw it as far as he could. He turned to Luke, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You seem to be a bit edgy,” he said dryly.

“Could be,” Luke said levelly. “But I don’t have a doubt you were doing your best to kill me a few minutes ago, in the air.”

“Oh, I assure you that I was,” the pilot said. “May I have the honor of knowing who I’m surrendering to?”

“Lieutenant Commander Skywalker.”

“Very well, Commander Skywalker,” the pilot said. “I, Wing Commander Crunie, surrender myself into your custody.”

“Any regulation says a prisoner can’t be used as extra muscle?” Luke asked.

Crunie raised an eyebrow at the irregular question, then glanced at R2-D2 in understanding. “Not that I recall.”

* * *

Flynn ground his teeth as the gunship was rocked by plasma fire. The shields of the ship barely kept a wing from being sheared off by a bolt of plasma.

“ _Hot landing!”_ the pilot shouted over the intercom, trying to shed as much altitude as he could without slamming into the ground.

The inertial compensators screamed in protest of their maneuver, but their high-pitched whine cut out suddenly as the ship leveled out on the surface.

The troop bay doors were still open, and the ground rushing by revealed itself to be strewn with the burned out husks of fighters and troop transports. Other gunships were attempting to land, dropping troops off just behind their lines, if they got the chance, or being blown out of the sky while they tried.

The speed of the gunship slowed to a walk, and the pilot barked for everyone to disembark. The squad of Stormtroopers rushed off of the ship, followed closely by Flynn. Their wounded comrade was left on the deck of the ship, to be taken to the _Resolute_ ’s med bays in orbit.

The gunship climbed up into the atmosphere again, only rising a hundred meters off of the ground before an X-Wing streaked past, and blew it out of the sky with a single concussion missile.

Flynn blinked at the ferocity of the explosion, and a tiny stab of fear flashed through him as he watched the remains of the gunship slam into the ground, trailed by fiery debris. He’d never imagined the Rebels could have achieved such complete air superiority this quickly.

The Imperial lines were advancing, but the Rebel X-Wings and airspeeders were playing havoc with their formations. As lethal as the X-Wings had been when arrayed against their TIE air cover, they were only a nuisance to ground forces. The airspeeders were anything but a nuisance though…

The airspeeders looked ungainly and ugly when compared to strike-fighters, lacking inertial compensators and the acceleration and maneuvering advantage that afforded their X-Wing kin. But while the X-Wings were dedicated space-supremacy strike-fighters, the airspeeders were dedicated ground attack craft.

The Imperial mobile artillery walkers—affectionately known as ‘Gorilla Walkers’ by their crews—were heavily armored enough to shrug off the air-to-ground missiles deployed by the Rebel airspeeders. But the AT-AT walkers were not nearly so heavily armored, and the Rebel airspeeders seemed to be focusing their efforts on them.

An airspeeder roared over Flynn before an AMG-9 missile detached from under its fuselage and streaked toward the nearest AT-AT.

Flynn blinked in surprise at the intensity of the explosion, then again at the horrible sound of tortured metal as the walker fell to the ground.

He pulled a holo-emitter out of his belt and tapped it several times. Soon, a helmeted figure arose from the emitter. “What is our situation, General?” Flynn demanded.

The holographic figure saluted stiffly. _“The advance has been stalled out, but we have a surprise planned for the R_ _ebels, Colonel,_ _”_ the general smiled without pleasure.

Suddenly, the balance of power in the air shifted. Guided missiles streaked away from the Imperial lines, leaving dirty clouds of exhaust in their wake as they chased after Rebel ships.

Explosion blossomed in the sky, tearing X-Wings and airspeeders apart with thermite warheads. The surviving Rebel ships pulled back, unwilling to come so close to the Imperial lines again.

Why the missiles hadn’t been utilized earlier was beyond Flynn, but he didn’t pretend to understand every factor of this battle.

“ _Without continual harassment, we should be on their defensive lines in…”_ the general trailed off, and glanced at something outside the pickups, _“twenty minutes.”_

* * *

Crunie hadn’t complained about R2-D2’s weight, and the two pilots had made good time by dragging the droid together.

Luke had been very careful to keep outside of Crunie’s reach and had also been careful to never turn his back to the Imperial pilot. If Crunie noticed Luke’s caution, he didn’t give any sign of it.

“Awful lot of effort for a droid,” Crunie said, not in complaint, but just to make conversation.

“We’ve been through a lot together,” Luke explained simply.

“Ah.” Crunie glanced around, feeling suddenly restless, though there was nothing in sight. “Bit young to be a lieutenant commander,” he said, changing the subject.

“True. I—” Luke’s sentence stopped short as he noticed the faint, but distinctive, whine of ion engines in the distance.

A TIE Fighter shot over the ridge. It was one of the stragglers which had somehow avoided the swarms of X-Wings. It streaked past them, but the bright orange of Luke’s flight suit must have caught the pilot’s eye, and it swerved in the air before bearing down on Luke and Crunie.

“Down!” Luke snapped, drawing his lightsaber with one fluid motion, just as Ben had taught him.

Crunie started to comply, then froze as he heard the _snap-hiss_ of Luke’s igniting blade. His eyes went wide, as he saw what few Imperial citizens had seen in nearly twenty years; a Jedi.

Luke imposed himself between Crunie and the TIE, and then waited. He’d only trained with Ben for a week, and he was painfully aware of how truly limited his abilities were, but still he waited.

The TIE raced toward them, and bolts of emerald plasma started atomizing the snow in front of them. Clouds of steam from the vaporized snow drifted back toward them, but Luke hardly noticed it as he tried to call upon the Force.

Twin bolts slammed into the snow barely a meter in front of Luke, and the blast of steam scalded his exposed skin, but he didn’t wince. Serenity washed over him for half a second, as he opened himself to the Force by pure instinct, letting it do with him as it wished.

 _Now_ _,_ Ben said. The dead Jedi Knight’s half-amused half-grave voice filled Luke’s ears.

Luke’s blade of energy arced upward from it’s low-guard and caught a bolt of plasma square-on. An explosion louder than any Luke had ever heard boomed overhead a fraction of a second later, and an eerie whirling of wind came through the clouds of steam.

“Down!” Crunie roared, slamming into Luke’s back. Luke barely had the time to deactivate his blade before he found himself nose-first in the snow.

The world shook, doing it’s best to shake Luke and Crunie loose, but it was a peaceful little nudge compared to the explosion that followed.

Then it was over.

Crunie’s weight came off of Luke’s back, and Luke rolled out of the snow, standing shakily.

The remains of the TIE Fighter was burning a little over three-hundred meters away, smoke slowly rising from the burning fuel.

Crunie’s eyes were wide, and his mouth was working wordlessly. Finally, he managed to say something. “Huh,” he grunted.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a lot of fun to write, and included something you don't usually see in Star Wars: Armored warfare.

# CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

 

“Come on, you sons of cikens! Do you want to live forever?”

—Unknown Alliance Army Sergeant  
12th Armored Division

 

* * *

 

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

“ _All non-vital combat personnel have_ _been evacuated, Admiral,”_ Rear Admiral Ackbar’s holographic representation reported.

“Understood,” Thrawn answered simply.

Akbar nodded, and his holographic representation died as he cut the connection.

“Admiral,” Commander Sheplin reported, “our pickets have made contact with the Imperials.”

* * *

Plasma streaked across the snowy horizon, as the Imperial Stormtroopers advanced steadily. The Stormtroopers were arrayed in crooked lines and firing their blasters at hip-level. The action seemed like something out of a cheap holovid, but the Stormtroopers’ blasters interfaced directly with their helmets, and they were able to put down a torrent of accurate fire without even sighting down their iron sights.

Alliance pickets fired their rifles and carbines at the steadily advancing horde of stormtroopers, but they were hopelessly outgunned, and the beleaguered pickets quickly settled for keeping their heads under cover.

Rumbling thunder sounded, barely audible from the picket lines. The dull, booming explosions in the distance seemed unreal on the frigid planet. The sound of the thunderclaps died away, and the plasma-fire from the Stormtroopers continued…until the first shells from the Alliance kinetic artillery landed.

Entire lines of Stormtroopers disappeared, their formations blown apart by explosive thermite shells. Slivers of ice as long as a Human arm flew outward from the points of detonation, shattering against the Stormtroopers’ armor, while the pressure waves ruptured their internal organs.

The artillery became a continuous roar, sending hundreds of shells over the Alliance lines and squarely into the massive Imperial formations.

Hundreds of Stormtroopers fell in the bombardment, but their comrades stepped over their ruined bodies without faltering.

Then the Stormtroopers hit the pickets.

The Alliance pickets fixed vibroblades to the underside of the barrels of their rifles, preparing to fight hand-to-hand.

The unstoppable wave of armored Stormtroopers crested over the foxholes, and the horrendously outnumbered revolutionaries fought to the death.

* * *

The troops of Line One watched the slaughter with stony expressions, knowing they would face the Imperial juggernaut next.

AT-AT walkers, faster than their AT-MA counterparts, had already come close enough to the Alliance lines to begin bombarding the fortified positions with their heavy plasma cannons. Alliance anti-armor cannons returned the bombardment, and an AT-AT slowly fell to the ground after a plasma bolt shattered one of its armored legs.

For a moment the battle teetered back and forth, as the walkers continued to trade blows with Line One, but then the Stormtroopers finished butchering the Alliance pickets and turned their attention to Line One.

The troops in Line One, an awkward mix of Marines and Army personnel, stopped the vaunted Imperial Stormtroopers cold, but only for a moment.

* * *

“Line One has collapsed sir,” Sheplin reported.

Thrawn nodded passively—it had been expected. “Execute Rolling Thunder.”

* * *

Paul Sinko listened to the comm chatter from Line Two and the survivors of Line One. Bursts of static distorted the chatter whenever a bolt of plasma flew between his T3-B battle tank and one of the comm signal repeaters set up all around Dorn Base.

His helmeted head poked out of the top of the commander’s hatch as they rumbled steadily toward the Imperial lines. Given the reliability of modern sensors, tank commanders didn’t need to ride with their head exposed anymore, but any experienced tanker knew just how valuable a real pair of eyes was.

He twisted around, getting a look at the two T3-Bs that were flanking his own tank. They were under his direct command, and hundreds of additional tanks not under his command stretched out on both sides of the three tanks. “Keep it tight,” he ordered into his comlink.

“ _Copy,”_ the voice of the flanking tankers answered over the comlink.

Tightening a tank formation—especially a tank formation heading right at anti-armor artillery—wasn’t the sanest move a tank commander would make, but sanity hadn’t been mentioned as a requirement in their mission briefing.

Rolling Thunder sent one-third of the Alliance Army’s tanks—which had been safely nestled in firing pits in the defensive lines—racing out the meet the Imperial Stormtroopers. Hopefully, Sinko thought, the Imperials were still busy slaughtering Line One and wouldn’t anticipate the sudden counterattack. Hope was in short supply.

Sinko keyed his comlink to broadcast to his crew as they rolled over the trenches of Line Two. “Jim, get our turret lined up with that walker on our one-thirty,” he ordered.

“ _Got it.”_

The turret depressed slightly, and swiveled to the right, putting both massive plasma cannons in line with the Imperial AT-MA artillery walker he’d singled out.

“Fire one,” he ordered.

The left cannon jerked back, cracking sharply as a bolt of plasma sped away. The AT-MA’s steady steps hesitated for an instant as the driver of the mobile artillery platform saw the bolt speeding at him.

The control room of the walker exploded in a fiery explosion, the bolt of plasma vaporizing the crew instantly.

“Jim, walker at eleven o’clock, same elevation,” Sinko said, not even giving the burning hulk of the artillery walker a second glance.

“I see him.”

Blaster fire began slashing at the thick armor of the T3-B’s, as Imperial officers realized just how deadly of a punch the squat tank carried.

The tank on Sinko’s left blew apart as another AT-MA mobile artillery walker sent a shot down its throat.

The turret on Sinko’s tank finished spinning. “Fire two.”

The right cannon flashed, and the AT-AT they had targeted staggered from the blow. It didn’t fall, though half of it’s troop compartment vanished in a bright explosion.

Light repeating blasters mounted on the hull of Paul’s tank began sputtering, sending bolts of crimson plasma into the lines of Stormtroopers they were plowing through.

One Stormtrooper reared up before Sinko, a captured Alliance PLX guided missile launcher in his hands.

Sinko felt his stomach tighten as he watched the Stormtrooper level the launcher at his tank.

* * *

**_Hoth Orbit, Outer Rim, 0 ABY_ **

“Engineering reports auxiliary power is at sixty percent, sir,” a staffer reported, bracing to attention before Captain Wren.

Wren hardly noticed, his eyes were so intent on the tactical board that was displaying the battle on the surface.

“Engineering also reports that main power will be back online in two more hours.”

Something in the staffer’s tone brought Wren back to the present. “It will be long over by then,” he snapped, looking up at the staffer suddenly.

“Yes, sir,” the staffer said meekly.

Wren glanced back down at the tactical display. It wasn’t the staffer’s fault that the blasted Rebel’s had disabled the _Resolute_ , but that didn’t diminish his desire to grind the life out of the staffer and every one of his incompetent engineers.

He noticed the staffer was still at attention, and he waved him away with one hand. He rubbed at his temples as he kept studying the tactical display. He had no effective control over the battle, and that irked him more than the pathetic rate of progress the troops were making.

He’d watched helplessly as the entire fighter compliment of the _Resolute_ was mauled by the Rebel fighters, despite outnumbering the Rebels three-to-one. Then he’d watched just as helplessly as the Rebels evacuation transports had jumped into hyperspace. The passive sensors on the hull of the _Resolute_ had recorded their exit vectors, but without main power, he wouldn’t be able to follow them to their rendezvous point.

Had the Rebels been sufficiently interested, they could have even sent their fighters up after _Resolute_ , but they never did. Anything short of a baradium warhead wouldn’t do anything to the tens of meters of thick durasteel armor anyway, and he doubted the Rebels had anything remotely as dangerous as that…no that wasn’t quite right; they had Thrawn.

On his tactical board, the blue lines of Imperial troops advanced further. Another hour at the most, he’d been assured, and they would have Hoth, and whatever remained of the Rebel Alliance.

* * *

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

Paul Sinko’s tank exploded in a fiery flash as the shaped warhead of the PLX missile punched right through the front plate. The warhead must have hit the canisters of tibanna gas in the cannon loader magazines, as the tank vaporized a moment later.

Lieutenant Colonel Zeno Walker, the commander of Operation Rolling Thunder, shielded his eyes against the explosion that had been Sinko’s tank and swore. He keyed his comlink. “All units, break formation, begin emergency maneuvering.”

A chorus of acknowledgments came back to him.

He switched his comlink pickup to only broadcast to his tank crew. “Target and fire as you will. Tim, reverse right track.”

“ _Yes, sir.”_

The tank jerked as it began swinging to the right.

The left cannon cracked, and the troop compartment of an AT-ST blew apart, scattering wreckage high into the sky.

A Stormtrooper reared up before Walker’s tank, hoping to emulate his comrade’s success against Sinko’s tank. The repeating blaster mounted on the front armor plate of Walker’s tank sputtered, and the Stormtrooper jerked and fell to the ground, half his armor melted away before he could squeeze the firing stud of the PLX launcher.

Walker pursed his lips. He’d never seen a battle this chaotic, or one so brutal.

The Imperials were slowly recovering from the shock of the Alliance tanks, and Walker knew it wouldn’t be long before they started surrounding the heavy tanks and cutting them to pieces.

An AT-MA walker fired its main, spinally-mounted turbolaser cannon at Walker’s tank. The bolt hit Walker’s armor at a shallow angle, and the bolt dug a deep gash into the front armor plate, but the plasma dissipated before it could penetrate to the front transmission.

A proton missile streaked away from Walker’s tank, slamming into the artillery walker that had just nearly killed them. When the missile exploded, the remains of the walker sprayed outward, trailing vapor trails.

Walker grinned viciously, then didn’t do anything as a PLX missile killed him and his crew instantly.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Hoth continues...

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 

The Vsercin priests claim that Hell burns like a Class-0 star, but, for those ten hours on Hoth at least, Hell was freezing cold.

—From _The Frozen Hours  
_Captain Jobin Mothma, NRA, Retired

 

* * *

 

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

“ _We’re pulling the Eighty-Fifth off_ _of the third line,”_ General Trantor reported from the forward command bunker.

“Understood,” Thrawn said. “I’ll be sure they’re put on the next transport.”

The hologram of Trantor shook as the entire bunker was pounded by Imperial artillery. _“Good. Thank you, Admiral.”_ The general glanced at someone outside of the pickup’s range, before turning back to the pickup. _“We plan on taking the Forty-Second out next, Admiral, in…”_ The general was quiet as he recalculated his timetables. _“Fifteen minutes.”_

“Very well, General.”

“ _General,”_ a voice said before the body of an aide ducked into the field of the holo-recorder pickups. The aide reported quickly, and Trantor listened for a moment, before waving the aide away.

“ _I must attend to my duties,”_ Trantor said.

“I understand, General.”

Trantor saluted quickly, and the holographic figure disappeared into the holo-emitter.

“Sir, The Eighty-Fifth is withdrawing in good order,” Sheplin reported.

“Very well, let Ackbar know that they’re heading his way,” Thrawn ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

“Line Three must hold for,” Thrawn hesitated for a moment, recalculating his own timetables in his mind, “half an hour, at the least.”

Sheplin nodded unhappily. Holding for half an hour with all of their regiments on the final line was possible, but while simultaneously pulling regiments off of it one at a time? It _might_ be possible.

* * *

Wedge Antilles was clenching his teeth so hard he was afraid of chipping one.

R5 whistled, his unhappy electronic chirps coming through Wedge’s headset. He grimaced. “Happy thoughts, Arfive,” he said.

R5 chirped indignantly.

His X-Wing fighter shot over the horizon, followed by the seven other remaining members of Rogue Squadron. They were barely fifteen meters above the rolling terrain, speeding toward the Imperial lines once more.

* * *

Flynn glanced up from the holo-emitter he held in his hand, causing Captain Wren to break off his report.

“ _What, Colonel?”_ Wren asked.

“Fighters,” Flynn said curtly. “I must go.”

“ _Wait—”_ Wren began to protest, before Flynn cut the comm circuit. Wren would be furious for the casual dismissal in the middle of his report, but Flynn couldn’t help that. Whatever the Navy captain had been taking so long to report would keep until after this new threat had been dealt with. He’d already seen just how deadly the X-Wings could be. He ran to the command walker to find the commander of the assault force.

Imperial Army General Rendali turned to face Flynn, as the ISB colonel clambered up the walker’s moving ladder.

“Colonel,” Rendali said in greeting. He glanced up at the sky, anticipating the question Flynn was about to ask. “Our SAMs should take care of them long before they come into attack range, Colonel—don’t worry.”

* * *

“Now!” Wedge barked over the squadron comm channel.

Six proton torpedoes streaked away from the twin launchers built into each fighter. Each torpedo split away from its comrades, streaking toward individual targets.

The Imperial walker commanders had no time to react, and they wouldn’t have believed what their sensor suites were reporting if they had had the time. _No one_ used proton torpedoes in an atmosphere, as all of their maneuverability was lost when they weren’t used in a vacuum. Unfortunately for the Imperial commanders, maneuverability wasn’t required against the plodding walkers.

The proton warheads tore into forty-eight Imperial walkers, vaporizing everything within fifty meters of the points of detonation. The glowing remains of the walkers slowly toppled to the ground.

Enraged Imperial infantrymen hoisted their surface-to-air missiles to their shoulders and squeezed the firing studs. The SAM missiles streaked into the air, chasing after the distant specks of X-Wings. Dirty clouds of exhaust trailed behind the arm-sized missiles.

The exhaust plumes shot up into Wedge’s vision, and warning klaxons sounded as his sensors picked up the active sensor locks.

“All ships hard about,” Wedge ordered, flipping his craft up and around in a tight loop as he did so. Rogue Squadron followed right behind him. He bit the inside of his cheek as the warning klaxons continued to blare. It would be close…

Rogue Seven and Eleven exploded, blossoms of flame and debris sprouting outwards as SAM missiles slammed into them, cutting through the shields instantly. The remainder of the missiles dropped to the ground, their fuel spent.

Wedge closed his eyes for an instant. Two men were gone, but their actions had just bought the thousands of men on the ground some more time.

* * *

Plasma bolts snapped over the trench. The final trench.

Forty thousand men were shouldered up to the lips of Line Three, using carbines, rifles, sidearms, slug-throwers, and anything else that could kill a Stormtrooper in full combat armor.

The lip of the trench had been scarred by millions of blaster bolts, and the fronts of the ferrocrete bunkers glowed like furnaces from absorbing so many bolts. Thousands of wounded and dead were being carried away by stretcher teams, to be taken to the rendezvous point in deep space. The standing orders from General Trantor and Admiral Ackbar was that everyone—dead, or alive—was getting off this planet.

The transport launches were becoming less and less common, as even a single well placed SAM missile from the nearby Imperial lines would spell the death of well over a thousand evacuees.

Three transports had been downed by surface fire on take-off thus far, but Trantor and Ackbar had begun timing artillery barrages in tandem with the transport launches. The barrages managed to keep the heads of all but the most foolish Stormtroopers down whenever one of the fragile transports shot overhead.

* * *

Jobin Mothma stared out at the advancing Imperials, looking through the old-fashioned iron sights of his carbine as he peeked out of the trench. The carbine spat one last plasma bolt, and he slipped the gas-charge clip out, placing it carefully in an empty pocket of his field pack. The carbine was going to be useless after the battle; he’d fired it to the point of nearly slagging the barrel. But, for the time being, it was still shooting true.

He wasn’t thinking about his actions anymore, and after the hours of continual horror, he was letting the months of training control his body and blaster.

He slid the loading mechanism forward, locking the clip into place with a firm click. Then he hoisted the carbine upward, looked down the iron sights, and pulled the trigger again. Plasma spat out of the tortured barrel, and the stock of the carbine slammed into his horribly bruised shoulder yet again. Hundreds of meters ahead of the trench, a Stormtrooper fell among thousands of his fallen comrades, half of his shoulder blown away.

Thunderclaps sounded, and a moment later kinetic shells screeched overhead, diving into the Imperials lines. Fresh explosions pounded the Imperials, and a few seconds later a transport shot overhead, scrambling for altitude.

A few soldiers gave out a ragged cheer at the sight of the transport, but they were fewer than before. Jobin didn’t cheer. He knew that they were in the fight of their lives, and he stayed tight-lipped as he kept spitting plasma at the Imperials.

A bolt of plasma lanced out of the throat of the main artillery piece mounted on an AT-MA walker, and an instant later a knot of troops on Jobin’s left disappeared into a cloud of superheated steam and slag.

War, Jobin decided suddenly, as twenty men on his left died instantly, and countless more screamed in horror and pain, was hell.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though it grieves me to say it, this is the last chapter of Crossroads. It's been a lot of fun to post these chapters, and I'm so very glad that some of you have enjoyed it as much as you did. There will be a sequel, rest assured, and perhaps a novella about Mothma too (since a few people screamed about whether Mon Mothma was alive or not.)  
> I'll be uploading two more chapters after this, but they are just the appendices, (and not all that well-edited either.)  
> Thank you all, for every comment, and for every bit of kudos!  
> Happy reading!

# CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

 

We both lost that battle, in our own ways.

—From _Lonely Men_  
by Admiral William J. Sheplin, NRN, Retired  
with Hiram Flynn, ISB, Retired

 

* * *

 

_**Hoth, Outer Rim, 0 ABY** _

The Alliance lines almost held. Almost. They would have held, but as each regiment was pulled off of the line, destined to be carried far from this frozen planet, the line grew a little weaker.

And then it broke.

* * *

“Admiral,” Sheplin said, his voice tight. “The final line has been breached.”

Thrawn nodded, eyes revealing none of the sorrow he felt for every man who’d died. “Execute Case Zulu,” he ordered.

Sheplin’s mouth tightened. “Aye, Admiral.”

* * *

Case Zulu was the last in the long string of delaying tactics.

Whistles blew up and down the trenches, and orders were screamed over the sounds of the battle. Long lines of ragged soldiers began climbing out of the trenches, then running to the rear areas. The Stormtroopers couldn’t understand the actions of the Alliance soldiers for a moment…until the world seemed to explode around them.

Four-thousand thermite mines, produced on Kol Huro, each powerful enough to knock a tank out of commission, went off simultaneously. The warheads weren’t proton warheads, but the flash blinded even the Stormtroopers, whose helmets had dimmed the flash by ninety-nine percent. Thousands of Stormtroopers, who had unwittingly crossed into the vast field of mines, died among the swaths of explosively-driven shrapnel.

* * *

“ _Imperial Stormtroopers have entered the_ _base—”_ the voice on the intercom cut off suddenly with a scream, the sounds of a firefight in the background of the audio pickup.

“Admiral!” Sheplin said, voice nearly plaintive.

Thrawn didn’t respond, as he stared at the tactical displays.

“Admiral!” Sheplin’s voice was stronger.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Thrawn answered, his voice cold. “These men have fought and died for us, Commander, the least we can do is give them the chance to evacuate ahead of us.”

Sheplin stared. Then swore explosively, and grabbed Thrawn bodily by the shoulder.

Thrawn’s face hardened into lines of anger. He began to speak, but Sheplin didn’t let him, “Think, my friend!” Sheplin demanded as he dragged Thrawn down the frozen corridors. “You’ve allowed yourself to be blinded to the realities of war! People will die in it!”

Thrawn’s face contorted into a glare, “I—”

“No!” Sheplin snapped. “You have, and you damn well know it!”

“Do not, ever, raise your voi—” Thrawn’s tone was thoroughly threatening, but he was forced to chop the end of his sentence off as a bolt of plasma snapped past him.

Sheplin shoved Thrawn down, turning around and drawing his blaster smoothly in one action. He stepped out ahead of his admiral, ready, despite the anger both of them felt toward the other at this moment, to defend his friend to the death.

Sheplin’s DC-17 pistol came up to shoulder height as he held the stubby pistol in a duelists pose. The blaster pistol sputtered, sending a bolt of sapphire plasma into the breastplate of the nearest Stormtrooper.

The trooper twirled around before falling to the ground, a smoking hole bored through his plasteel armor by the powerful pistol.

Three more Stormtroopers fired their blasters in bursts at the tall Alliance commander. Sheplin’s stomach seared with pain as a bolt of plasma tore through his uniform, but he squeezed the trigger again, blowing the helmet off of a Stormtrooper and killing the man under the armor instantly.

Thrawn rose to his feet beside his aide, firing his own small blaster into the remnants of the Stormtrooper squad.

Sheplin’s first instinct was to shove Thrawn back to the ground, and out of the line of fire, but he was barely staying upright as it was, and couldn’t.

Sheplin’s shoulder was burned by another bolt of plasma, and he spun halfway around from the blow. His arm refused to respond to his commands, and he switched the DC-17 to his left hand calmly. He pulled the trigger one last time, feeling the heavy pistol slam back into his hand as a bolt of plasma killed one last Stormtrooper.

And then it was over.

Sheplin put his working hand to his stomach and felt the burned skin crinkle. He closed his eyes, and carefully slipped his sidearm back into its holster.

Thrawn slipped his arm under Sheplin’s shoulder, and he began leading his wounded friend toward the hanger. “Point taken, Commander,” Thrawn said softly, acknowledging Sheplin’s earlier tirade with a gentleness that would have surprised anyone.

* * *

Colonel Flynn heard the sounds of blasterfire further up the corridor, and his steady walk turned into a run as he headed toward the sound of the fight. It seemed to end just a few seconds before he arrived, but the smell of burnt plasteel and flesh filled the frozen corridor.

The corridor branched into three, and he wet his lips before running down one. It was just a guess, but he was so close…

He turned a corner, and stopped in his tracks. His mind went blank as he saw the back of the person he’d sought for so long, but had never known the identity of.

Grand Admiral Mitth’raw’nuruodo was holding a man who matched the profile of Commander William J. Sheplin, supporting the wounded man as they toddled into the entry of the hanger. Beyond them, Flynn could see a transport of some sort.

Without thinking, Flynn pulled his sidearm out, and leveled it at Thrawn’s back. The safety clicked off with all the smoothness years of use and training could give the action.

* * *

“Hurry up, Goldenrod, or you’re going to be a permanent resident!” Han Solo barked, standing at the base of the loading ramp, swearing mentally at C-3PO’s dawdling.

“ _Wait, wait!”_ The gold-plated droid cried plaintively as it climbed the loading ramp of the _Millennium Falcon_.

Solo started to close the ramp behind him, but then saw two new figures at the edge of the hanger. He swore again, this time audibly, and set the ramp back down. He ran out to meet Thrawn and Sheplin, taking Sheplin’s free arm, and putting it over his shoulder.

Chewbacca was at the base of the ramp, growling for them to hurry. His bowcaster was unslung as he kept a wary eye on the doors at the end of the hanger.

“Get us in the air,” Thrawn ordered.

Solo, never the most by-the-book man, bristled at the command, but didn’t protest. Getting off of this karking rock was what he’d had in mind anyway. Behind them, Chewbacca growled and shot at something, before raising the ramp and following quickly.

“All right, Chewie,” Han said, swinging into the pilot’s seat. “Punch it.”

The _Millennium Falcon_ rose off of its landing struts, hovering for a moment as its repulsorlifts rotated the freighter slowly. Then, with a whine of protest from the inertial compensator, the _Falcon_ shot out of the hanger, appearing out of the mouth of the cave moving at two-hundred kilometers an hour.

A quartet of Imperial SAM missiles chased after her, but the heavy shielding of the modified freighter took their warheads square-on without stumbling.

As they streaked out of the atmosphere, Thrawn looked down at the unconscious face of his friend who was lying in the med bay. Thrawn didn’t seem to be able to see the full naval commander who had just saved both of their lives, and instead saw the scarred seventeen-year-old boy who had come aboard _Ark Royal_ for the first time.

Sheplin’s uniform had been stripped away by Princess Leia—who Thrawn was surprised to see was aboard the _Falcon_ —and Thrawn saw that his friend’s stomach and chest was a mass of burnt flesh and old scars. Leia was applying a gel, but looked as though she wanted to throw up at the sight and smell.

Thrawn took the gel from the princess and motioned her out of the way. He reached down and began smearing the gelatinous substance over the burns. “Vatt’ah nen, Bei,” he said softly.

* * *

Flynn watched the saucer-like freighter shoot out of the hanger, before looking down at the unused sidearm still in his hand.

He couldn’t do it. Even after the unspeakably brutal things he had done in the service of the Imperial Security Bureau, the torture, the blackmail, the assassinations; he couldn’t do it. Flynn hadn’t seen the feared ‘mover-and-shaker’ who had drawn him to Hoth in the first place, he’d only seen a good man.

That he was his enemy hadn’t even crossed Flynn’s mind until they had disappeared up the loading ramp, and the massive Wookie had reminded him of that fact with a near-miss from his bowcaster.

He holstered his sidearm as the memory still played through his mind. As impossible as it had seemed to pull the trigger at that moment, Flynn realized that his reluctance would have a cost. An unspeakable cost.

* * *

Wedge watched the _Millennium Falcon_ shoot away from Dorn Base’s hanger and climb steadily higher in the atmosphere.

It was dusk already, and Wedge closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the moment of rest it provided. They’d been fighting for nearly ten hours. Slowly, he opened his eyes, letting every detail of the scene on the ground burn into his mind.

Tens of thousands of bodies lay crumpled and broken on the snow, like discarded toy soldiers a petulant child had thrown. From the air, Wedge could see square kilometers of wreckage and death. Thousands of craters pockmarked the landscape where kinetic shells, turbolasers, and thermite warheads had scarred the surface. The burning husks of walkers and tanks lit the coming darkness like the spirits of death, while even more lay unlit on the ground, already burnt-out. The thousands of bodies would freeze solid within an hour, and when the next snowstorm came through they would be hidden by a layer of snow. The remains of the walkers might last a few moments longer as fleeting monuments to the unspeakable horrors perpetrated on this battlefield.

Wedge had never seen the human cost of a battle so clearly, and he never wanted to see it again. But he knew he would. He was a soldier, a man born to kill his fellow man. And this was what he did best, not working with his hands, not farming under an alien sun, but killing.

He closed his eyes again, crying softly while he felt the soft tremble of the four engines in his bones. _Please,_ _let it end here. No more death, no more killing; just let it end._

“All ships report in,” he ordered hoarsely, opening his eyes slowly. “We’re going—” he choked for a moment on the word, “ _h_ _ome_.”


	28. Appendices I: Glossary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know; Wookiepedia is easier to use than this, but I still wanted to write it out, since there are a few terms and items that we invented for the story.

# APPENDICES I  
_GLOSSARY_

 

* * *

 

 **ABY:** An abbreviation for ‘ **A** fter **B** attle of **Y** avin’. It is usually used in the context of timekeeping.

 **AMG-9 missile:** An air-to-ground missile developed by the Empire for military airspeeders.

 **AT-AT:** An acronym for ‘ **A** ll **T** errain **A** rmored **T** ransport’. It is an Imperial assault walker.

 **AT-MA:** An acronym for ‘ **A** ll **T** errain **M** obile **A** rtillery’. It is an Imperial direct fire support walker.

 **ATO:** A naval acronym for ‘ **A** ssistant **T** actical **O** fficer’.

 **A.N.S.** _ **Isaih**_ **:** An Alliance orbital defense craft.

 **A.N.S.** _ **Starlight**_ **:** The flagship of the Alliance Navy. It is a Mon Calamari heavy cruiser.

 **A.N.S.** _ **Tranquil**_ _ **Dawn**_ : An Alliance Navy warship. It is _Nebulon-B_ -class.

 **Airspeeder:** A craft designed to fly exclusively in an atmosphere.

 **Alderaan:** A planet located in the Core Worlds. It was destroyed in 0 BBY.

 **Alien:** A species other than Human.

 **Alliance Army:** The primary branch of the Alliance Military responsible for surface warfare.

 **Alliance Charter Article Seven:** An article in the Alliance Charter concerning the dissolution of the Alliance Command Council.

 **Alliance Command Council:** The legislative body of the Alliance to Restore the Republic.

 **Alliance Intelligence:** The primary intelligence gathering organization of the Alliance to Restore the Republic.

 **Alliance Marine Corps:** The space-born infantry arm of the Alliance Military. They are primarily responsible for boarding actions.

 **Alliance Naval Officer Candidate School:** A series of courses designed to prepare enlisted spacers and recruits to become officers.

 **Alliance Navy:** The space warfare arm of the Alliance Military.

 **Alliance to Restore the Republic:** An alliance of Republican loyalists and Separatist holdouts who are attempting, by military force, to restore the Republic.

 **Astromech droid:** A droid designed to perform basic mechanical maintenance, as well as hyperspace navigation.

 **BBY:** An abbreviation for ‘ **B** efore **B** attle of **Y** avin’. It is usually used in the context of timekeeping.

 **BTL Y-Wing:** Primary fighter-bomber of the Alliance Navy, and, in the past, of the Republic Navy.

 **Bacta:** A gelatinous substance with near-miraculous healing properties.

 **Baradium warhead:** A weapon of mass destruction outlawed by pre-Imperial weapons treaties.

 **Battle of Trasemene:** A large battle fought in 19 BBY against Separatist holdouts. The battle produced two Imperial heroes: Admiral Adar Tallon, and General Jan Dodonna.

 **Battlestation:** A large, mobile siege platform.

 **Bkaua:** Huttese for ‘Star’.

 **Black hole:** A region of spacetime with a remarkably strong gravitational pull, where even light can not escape.

 **Blaster:** A projectile weapon that fires superheated tibanna gas. It is typically handheld.

 **Boot:** Slang used to refer to enlisted army personnel.

 **Bosun:** A naval term referring to petty officers.

 **Bosun’s pipes:** A type of whistle traditionally used by petty officers to issue orders quickly and efficiently. It is also used when welcoming officers or dignitaries aboard a ship.

 **C.E.D.F.S.** _ **Tun’isbi**_ : A Chiss light cruiser of unknown class.

 **Caf:** A caffeinated beverage, usually served hot.

 **Chandrila:** A planet located in the Core Worlds. It is the homeworld of Senator Mon Mothma, and is renowned for its democratic traditions.

 **Chiss:** An alien species native to the Unkown Regions. Physically they are humanoid, with blue skin, black hair, and, most prominently; glowing red eyes.

 **Chiss Ascendancy:** A nation located in the Unknown Regions. They are a regional power and have only limited contact with the rest of the ‘discovered’ galaxy.

 **Chiss Expansionary Defense Force:** The foremost military organization of the Chiss Ascendancy. Their officers adhere to a code of conduct which prohibits first strikes against the Ascendancy’s enemies.

 **Chrono:** A timekeeping device.

 **Ciken:** A female wrasa.

 **Clone Wars:** A galaxy-wide war fought between the Galactic Republic and the Confederacy of Independent Systems from 22 BBY to 19 BBY.

 **Combat air patrol:** A collection of strike-fighters or interceptors used to patrol around major naval formations.

 **Combat Information Center:** The primary nerve-center of a warship, which is used in combat to direct a battle.

 **Comlink:** A communication device which transmits audio signals from one location to another, via radio waves.

 **Comm:** Short for ‘ **Comm** unication’. It is mostly used in the context of communication channels.

 **Concussion missile:** A short-range anti-vehicle missile deployed by warships or strike-craft.

 **Core Worlds:** A region of the galaxy centering around the core of the galaxy. It’s the oldest and most well-developed region of the galaxy.

 **Corellia:** A planet located in the Core Worlds. It is the homeworld of Han Solo, and is renowned for its role in galactic history.

 **Corellian:** A person from Corellia.

 **Cortosis:** A very rare and brittle type of metal. Its conductive properties cause lightsabers to temporarily short out. It is often used in the construction of body armor, as it is remarkably efficient at dissipating plasma as well.

 **DC-17:** A model of sidearm, not to be confused with the DC-17m Interchangeable Weapon System, that originated from the Clone Wars. Traditionally favored by Republic, and later Imperial, special forces units.

 **Damage Control:** A portion of a warship dedicated to controlling damage. Commonly abbreviated as ‘ **DC** ’.

 **Datachips:** A portable, physical device that stores electronic data.

 **De facto:** In fact, or in effect, whether it is right or not.

 **Death Star:** A massive battlestation constructed by the Empire.

 **Deckhand:** A naval enlisted man who does manual labor, typically on a flight deck.

 **Deepdock:** A deep space shipyard.

 **Dorn Base:** A fort and mining complex on Hoth, constructed during the Cold War between 3653 BBY and 3642 BBY. It was rediscovered and used by the Alliance to Restore the Republic shortly after the Battle of Yavin.

 **Dotkohu:** A crudeHuttese term for a person born out of wedlock.

 **Dreadnought:** A type of warship designed to directly engage enemy capital ships. By 0 ABY the most powerful types of dreadnoughts were over 20 kilometers long. The Anaxes War College classifies a dreadnought as a warship over 5,000 meters in length. Before the Anaxes War College’s system of warship classification was officially adopted by the Republic, the size of dreadnoughts could vary wildly. Not to be confused with the Republic Navy _Dreadnought_ -class heavy cruiser.

 **Durasteel:** A strong metal alloy.

 **E-Web:** A heavy repeating blaster manufactured by BlasTech for the Empire.

 **Echuta:** A crude Huttese term for excrement.

 **Electronic Warfare Officer:** A spacer responsible for electronic warfare and electronic countermeasures.

 **Empire:** The Galactic Empire. A constitutional monarchy formed from the Galactic Republic.

 **Escape pods:** A small sublight spacecraft stored aboard ships for emergency naval evacuations.

 **Escort:** A small warship, typically smaller than a light cruiser, used to escort larger warships.

 **Etheric rudder:** A device used in strike-craft allowing for rapid changes in momentum and direction by manipulating the inertial compensator.

 **Expansion Region:** A region of the galaxy that was settled around 20,000 BBY. It is considered the breadbasket of the Core.

 **FLEETCOM:** A common abbreviation for ‘ **FLEET** **COM** mand’.

 **Ferrocrete:** A composite building material made from a molecular bonding of concrete and iron.

 **Flag officer:** A naval officer above the rank of captain.

 **Flash grenade:** A type of grenade which blinds and deafens biological creatures.

 **Fleetyard:** A large shipyard complex capable of handling the traffic and workload of an entire fleet.

 **Flimsi:** Shortened version of ‘flimsiplast’. It is a very thin sheet of acrylic, used much like paper, though flimsi is reusable, unlike paper.

 **Flyboy:** A term used to describe any person who pilots a strike-craft or airspeeder.

 **Fragmentation grenade:** A type of grenade which uses shrapnel to kill or destroy.

 **Gas-charge clip:** A clip used in all handheld blasters. They store a set amount of tibanna gas, and capacitor charges. They can be used as an improvised explosive device.

 **Glowlamps:** A device which produces light.

 **Grand Admiral:** The highest possible Imperial Navy rank. Grand admirals are personally chosen by the Emperor, and only twelve exist.

 **Grand Moff:** The regional governor of an Imperial oversector. The term dates back to the Galactic Republic’s ‘Expansionist Period’ (ca. 25,000-20,000 BBY.)

 **Gravity well:** Any relative curvature of space caused by gravity.

 **Ground-pounder:** A term used to describe any soldier in an army, as they generally fight on planetary surfaces.

 **Gus Talon:** One of the three moons of Corellia. It is the birthplace of Wedge Antilles.

 **H.I.M.S.** _ **Ark Royal**_ **:** A _Victory II_ -class star destroyer. Commander Sheplin, and Admiral Thrawn both served aboard her early in their respective careers.

 **H.I.M.S.** _ **Death’s Hand**_ **:** An _Imperial_ -class star destroyer. Captured by the Alliance to Restore the Republic shortly after the Battle of Yavin.

 **H.I.M.S.** _ **Knight**_ **:** An _Interdictor_ -class star destroyer. Captured by the Alliance to Restore the Republic shortly after the Battle of Yavin.

 **H.I.M.S.** _ **Resolute**_ **:** A _Mandator II_ -class dreadnought.

 **H.I.M.S.** _ **Revenge**_ **:** An _Imperial_ -class star destroyer. Captured by the Alliance to Restore the Republic shortly after the Battle of Yavin.

 **H.I.M.S.** _ **Royal**_ **:** An _Imperial_ -class star destroyer.

 **Holo-emitter:** A device which emits a hologram. It is usually used for holographic communication but can display holographic media as well.

 **Holo-recorder:** A device which records 3D spaces as a hologram.

 **HoloNet:** A method of FTL communication and news broadcasting.

 **Holovid:** A holographic recording.

 **Hoth:** A planet in the Outer Rim.

 **Huttese:** The native language of the Hutt species. It is widely spoken throughout the Outer Rim and beyond, as the Hutts have had traditional dominance throughout the frontier.

 **Hyper-limit:** Slang for hyperspace limit. A non-physical barrier within which hyperdrives are rendered inoperable. The size and shape of the hyper-limit is influenced by gravitational masses.

 **Hypercomm:** A large FTL communication device which has a limited practical range.

 **Hyperdrive:** The principle form of FTL transportation in the known galaxy.

 **Hyperspace:** The dimension through which FTL travel is possible.

 **IFF:** An acronym for ‘ **I** dentify **F** riend or **F** oe’. It is a device used by warships to identify friendly ships.

 **Imp:** Slang for Imperial citizen.

 **Imperial Army:** The primary branch of the Imperial Military responsible for surface warfare.

 **Imperial Center:** The Capital of the Galactic Empire. It was known as Coruscant in pre-Imperial times.

 **Imperial Intelligence:** The primary external intelligence gathering organization of the Galactic Empire.

 **Imperial Naval Academy:** A naval officer training program managed by the Imperial Navy. It was formed from the Republican Naval Academy.

 **Imperial Naval Intelligence:** The specialized intelligence gathering organization managed by the Imperial Navy.

 **Imperial Navy:** The space warfare arm of the Imperial Military.

 **Imperial Security Bureau:** An internal law enforcement and intelligence gathering organization of the Empire. They often view Imperial Intelligence as their rivals.

 **Imperial Senate:** The de jure legislative body of the Galactic Empire. It was formed from the Galactic Senate, of the Galactic Republic.

 **Imperial Senator:** A member of the Imperial Senate.

 **Imperial Starfleet:** Another name for the Imperial Navy.

 **Imperial Stormtrooper Corps:** The elite shock-trooper corps of the Imperial Military. They act as both marines and regular army troopers.

 **Imperial rank plaque:** A multi-colored plaque which was placed on the left breast of Imperial uniforms, both civil and military, to denote rank.

 _ **Imperial**_ **-class star destroyer:** The primary capital warship of the Imperial Navy. They are 1,600 meters in length, with a class two hyperdrive. They are derived from the pre-Imperial _Imperator_ -class star destroyer, used by the Republic Navy.

 **Inertial compensator:** A mechanical device which limits the effects of acceleration by turning high acceleration rates into lower ones. Commercial-grade compensators may fail without warning when used past 80 percent of maximum capacity. Military models are more robust.

 **Inner Rim:** A region of space settled shortly before the colonization of the Expansion Region.

 **Interdiction field:** An artificial hyper-limit generated by gravity well generators.

 _ **Interdictor**_ **-class star destroyer:** A capital warship used by the Imperial Navy. Derived from the hull of the _Imperial_ -class star destroyer, these ships mount four gravity well generators at the expense of armament.

 **Ion warhead:** A powerful EMP warhead.

 **Ison:** A star system and planet in the Outer Rim. The planet is the homeworld of Director Ison, whose family has had traditional economic dominance of the star system.

 **Kark:** A vulgar Huttese term for sexual activity.

 **Kessel:** An asteroid in the Maw Cluster. It is renowned for its naturally occurring spice, and its prison-mine.

 **Klick:** A kilometer.

 **Kol Huro:** A foundry system in the Outer Rim. It was used during the Clone Wars by the Confederacy of Independent Systems, and prior to the Clone Wars was the sight of the Kol Huro Unrest.

 **Krayt dragon:** A large, carnivorous reptile native to Tatooine.

 **Kuat Drive Yards:** A famed shipyard complex based in the Core Worlds system of Kuat.

 **Lutrillia:** A star system in the Outer Rim.

 **Lutrillia Shipyards:** A prominent shipyard complex in the Outer Rim.

 **Macrobinoculars:** A handheld electronic magnification device which allows users to observe distant objects.

 _ **Mandator II**_ **-class dreadnought:** A pre-Clone Wars dreadnought designed and produced by the Kuat Drive Yards for wealthy Core Worlds defense fleets.

 **Massassi:** A subspecies of the ancient Sith race, serving as the warrior caste. They are found only on Yavin IV in modern times.

 _ **Maxims of War**_ **:** A short, but influential, treatise on warfare written by Xim The Despot. It has remained relevant for over 25,000 years and forms the basis of much of modern military thought.

 **Medpack:** A ubiquitous, but basic, medical kit.

 _ **Millennium Falcon**_ **:** A modified YT-1300 light freighter with a very storied career. It is currently owned by Han Solo.

 **Moff:** The regional governor of an Imperial sector. The term dates back to the Galactic Republic’s ‘Expansionist Period’ (ca. 25,000-20,000 BBY.)

 **Mon Calamari:** The Human name given to an amphibian species from the planet of the same name. The name for their people in their native language is ‘Dac’.

 **Navicomputer:** A navigational computer used in hyperspace jumps.

 _ **Nebulon-B**_ **-class:** A frigate designed by the Kuat Drive Yards for the Imperial Navy as a dedicated point defense escort.

 **Nerf:** A species of antlered, herbivorous mammals found across all civilized agricultural worlds in the known galaxy.

 **New Navy:** An Imperial movement headed by Grand Moff Tarkin which believed in the reallocation of traditional Imperial Navy funds to construct superweapons which would—in theory—be more effective than conventional warships.

 **New Order:** The Galactic Empire’s core ideals. The term can also be used to refer to the Galactic Empire itself.

 **Normal space:** Our dimension.

 **Outer Rim:** A frontier region of the galaxy bordering Wild Space. It is the least well developed of the ‘colonized’ regions.

 **PLX missile launcher:** A portable anti-armor missile launcher manufactured by Merr-Sonn Munitions, Inc. for the Galactic Republic during the Clone Wars. It is considered an outdated, but still effective, anti-armor missile launcher in modern times.

 **Panbocn:** A Huttese term, meaning literally ‘Damn’.

 **Particle shields:** A type of deflector shield used to deflect physical projectiles or debris.

 **Pips:** A type of military rank insignia worn on a collar.

 **Plasma:** Superheated gas. It is used in numerous weapons throughout the galaxy, from lightsabers to blasters.

 **Plasma cannon:** A heavy weapon which accelerates bolts of electromagnetically contained plasma.

 **Plasteel:** A material which combines acrylic polymers and metal alloys. Used in body armor.

 **Pring:** A vulgarProto-Basic term for sexual activity.

 **Prisoner of war:** A soldier who has been captured by an enemy in war.

 **Project Stardust:** A secretive project which oversaw the construction of Imperial superweapons.

 **Proton torpedoes:** A type of guided missile used throughout the known galaxy. They are optimized for vacuum maneuvering and are tipped with proton warheads.

 **Proton warhead:** An explosive device which uses protons to activate a nuclear chain reaction.

 **Ray shields:** A type of deflector shield which absorbs radiation.

 **Rebellion:** An Imperial term for the Alliance to Restore the Republic.

 **Reconnaissance platforms:** Small platforms with capital ship-grade sensor suites used for battlefield surveillance.

 **Republic:** The Galactic Republic, a pan-galactic republic founded in 25,053 BBY. The Republic fractured between 1,100 BBY and 1,000 BBY, during the New Sith Wars, and collapsed following the Clone Wars in 19 BBY. It was succeeded by the Galactic Empire.

 **Republic Navy:** The space warfare arm of the Republic Military. It was reorganized several times throughout the history of the Republic.

 **Repulsorlift:** An anti-gravity device capable of levitating an object.

 **Rholes Hemlocks:** A fictional holovid detective renowned for his deductive and inductive reasoning skills. He is often accompanied by his faithful companion, Doctor Johnson.

 **Rodian:** A reptilian alien species from the planet Rodia.

 **Rogue Squadron:** A famed Alliance strike-fighter squadron commanded by Commander Wedge Antilles. It is permanently detached from any formal command structure, and they instead report directly to Admiral Thrawn.

 **S-Foils:** Movable radiator panels mounted on the port and starboard sides of a strike-fighter. Sometimes weapons are mounted on them.

 **Search And Rescue:** Commonly abbreviated ‘ **SAR** ’. An organized military search for friendly soldiers who have been cut off from support.

 **Separatist:** A Republican, and later Imperial, term for a member of the Confederacy of Independent Systems.

 **Sheev Palpatine:** The emperor of the Galactic Empire, formerly the supreme chancellor of the Galactic Republic.

 **Shields:** A non-technical reference to particle shielding, ray shielding, or both.

 **Shuldene:** A planet and star system in the Outer Rim.

 **Sith:** An alien species from the planet Korriban with an innate connection to the Dark Side of the Force. The word can also refer to the Order of the Sith Lords, who continue the species’ dark practices, though they are rarely members of the Sith species.

 **Sith Emperor:** A Sith Lord known as Vitiate, who ruled the Sith Empire from the end of the Great Hyperspace War through to the Cold War, a period of over a thousand years. He is believed to be the most powerful Sith Lord to have ever existed.

 **Sith Empire:** An authoritarian and theocratic empire based out of the Unkown Regions from 5,000 BBY to sometime prior to 2,000 BBY.

 **Sith language:** The native language of the Sith species.

 **Skrag:** A vulgar Old Corellian term for excrement.

 **Slave-circuit:** A mechanism which allows for remote control of a vehicle via a comm channel.

 **Snottie:** Naval slang for ‘snot-nosed kid’.

 **Spacer:** A person who lives, works, or fights in space.

 **Star destroyer:** A type of capital warship. An alternative term is ‘battleship’.

 **Strike-craft:** A type of light craft designed to attack warships of equal or larger size.

 **Strike-fighter:** A type of light craft designed to attack warships of equal size.

 **Superlaser:** A massive plasma beam emitter capable of destroying a planet.

 **Surface to Air Missile:** Commonly abbreviated ‘ **SAM’**. A guided anti-airspeeder and anti-strike-craft missile which is launched from the surface of a planet.

 **T-16:** A high-performance airspeeder manufactured by the Incom Corporation.

 **T-3B battle tank:** A main battle tank manufactured by Yultrane-Trackata, and used by the Alliance to Restore the Republic.

 **T-65 X-Wing:** A high-performance strike-fighter designed by the Incom Corporation for the Imperial Navy. It is more famously used by the Alliance Navy.

 **TIE Bomber:** A strike-craft manufactured by Sienar Fleet Systems and based around the popular TIE frame. It is the primary bomber of the Imperial Navy.

 **TIE Fighter:** A light, unshielded strike-fighter manufactured by Sienar Fleet Systems. It is the primary interceptor craft of the Imperial Navy.

 **Tac-net:** Shortened version of ‘tactical-net’. A system of coordinating strike-craft during a battle.

 **The Emperor:** Sheev Palpatine.

 **The Maw Cluster:** A labyrinth-like cluster of black holes located in the Outer Rim.

 **Thermite:** A highly explosive material commonly used in military ordnance.

 **Thorilide:** A valuable mineral used in industrial manufacturing. The smell is not pleasant.

 **Tibanna gas:** A rare form of gas used in blasters to create plasma. It is naturally occurring on several planets.

 **Touchpad:** A portable computer with a touchscreen.

 **Tracking beacon:** A device capable of tracking ships through hyperspace.

 **Tractor:** A small wheeled form of transportation that is commonly used to tow objects. It can also be used to describe a tractor beam.

 **Tractor beam:** A projected force-field used to move large objects. They are commonly used aboard warships.

 **Trasemene:** A planet and system located in the Outer Rim. It was the site of the Battle of Trasemene.

 **Triple Zero:** Military slang for the Imperial Center.

 **Turbolaser:** A large plasma cannon.

 **Turbolaser tower:** A common defensive installation which mounts one or more turbulasers.

 **Unknown Regions:** An unexplored region of the galaxy.

 **Vacuum suits:** A sealed and self-contained suit worn by a humanoid to survive the vacuum of space or other hazardous environments.

 **Vatt’ah nen, Bei:** A Chiss sentence, meaning literally ‘Help us, God’.

 **Veaue:** Huttese for ‘Celestial’.

 **Vibroblade:** A type of bladed melee weapon which used ultrasonic vibrations to increase their effectiveness.

 **Weapon-detector:** A type of sensor designed to detect power cells, and other commonly used weapon components.

 **Wild Space:** A mostly-unmapped region of space beyond the Outer Rim.

 **Wolff:** A carnivorous alien creature from the Aor system in the Outer Rim. The females of the species are known to be very attractive.

 **Wookie:** An alien species from the planet Kashyyyk in the Mid Rim. They are very large, hairy, and startlingly intelligent.

 **Xim the Despot:** A Human male who conquered a vast interstellar empire in the years before the founding of the Galactic Republic. He is considered one of the finest military minds the galaxy has ever seen.

 **Yavin IV:** The fourth moon of the gas giant Yavin. Located in the Yavin system in the Outer Rim.

 **Z-95 Headhunter:** An antiquated multi-role strike-fighter designed and produced by the Incom Corporation and the Subpro Corporation.


	29. Appendices II: The Navies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of my basic playbook for writing the space battles for Crossroads. The space combat was very heavily inspired by David Weber's Honorverse, as anyone who's read one of those books should have realized, with acceleration rates, inertial compensators, and the like.

# APPENDICES II  
_THE NAVIES_

 

* * *

 

**NAVAL DESIGN**

The warships used in the galaxy (ca. 0 ABY) came in almost limitless variations and designs. The principal designers of ship designers during and before the Galactic Civil War were the companies working in tandem with the Imperial Navy, such as the Kuat Drive Yards, the Corellian Engineering Corporation, and Sienar Fleet Systems.

Warships were designed with three basic principles in mind: Acceleration rates, endurance, and tactical capabilities.

Acceleration rates were governed by the capabilities of the inertial compensator(s) mounted aboard the ships, and not according to the size and power of the engines. Military-grade inertial compensators are designed to allow safe acceleration rates of over four-hundred gravities aboard capital ships, and of over six-hundred aboard strike-craft. Inertial Compensators are dangerous when used past their safety margins, and may fail without warning when pushed beyond design limits. Compensator failure is one of the most gruesome ends that all spacers dread.

Endurance is not as simple as it may seem on flimsi, for the incredible size of the known galaxy, the relative speeds of hyperdrives, and the large compliments of warships make provisioning a fleet of vessels a nightmare for the logistical officers.

Tactical capabilities are perhaps the most obvious portion of naval design, and one of the most controversial, as there is endless debate among the designers and tacticians about the ideal warship design.

In the days of the Clone Wars, starfighter carriers dominated naval warfare, and all contemporary tactics involved force projection and starfighter sorties. In the days of the Galactic Civil War, however, starfighter carriers had fallen out of favor as anything more than a distraction, and the navies of the interstellar powers were dominated by battleships and battlecruisers.

* * *

**NAVAL DOCTRINE**

Naval doctrines in the time of the Galactic Civil War were varied, but the basic premise remains unvaried through both time and space: The denial of space superiority to the enemy.

Denial of space superiority could be achieved through numerous methods, but the surest method was the destruction of the enemy naval forces in battle.

The respective navies of the First Galactic Empire and the Alliance to Restore the Republic used naval doctrines that, by necessity, contrasted each other’s.

The Empire’s naval doctrine is unique, as the military leadership in the Imperial Navy did not believe there was a significant military force in the galaxy that could challenge them, and, as of 10 BBY, that assumption was proven correct in the Pravda Skirmishes.

The Empire’s forces were, thus, on a whole, dedicated to peacekeeping roles, and commanders were trained in civilian control operations more than combat scenarios against equally well-armed foes. The lack of fleet combat training in Imperial officers has led to staggering losses from tactical blunders.

Perhaps nowhere is the modern Imperial Navy’s doctrine more perfectly epitomized than in Imperial Communiqué #001044.92v, also known as the Tarkin Doctrine, which led to the production of superweapons and planetoid-sized battlestations. In keeping with prior Imperial doctrines, the Tarkin Doctrine was not designed to combat external threats of comparable size and effectiveness to the Imperial Navy, but instead to keep potentially rebellious sectors and star systems in line.

After the defection of Thrawn, and the death of Grand Moff Tarkin, the Tarkin Doctrine slowly fell out of favor with the Imperial High Command. Though, one of the side-effects of the Tarkin Doctrine—the construction of thousands, and occasionally millions, of lightweight low-cost warships—has remained popular in the Navy.

The Alliance’s naval doctrine is less unique than that of the Empire, being descended from a long lineage of practitioners of a stateless strategy, and is far less dogmatic than their opponents’.

A practitioner of a stateless strategy out of necessity from it’s inception, the Alliance Navy was plagued with disjointed leadership throughout its early years. The majority of flag officers had been trained in the Imperial Navy, and had been taught that tactical warfare was a grinding, attrition-based affair. This contrasted sharply with the need for a stateless strategy, and led to many defeats for the early Alliance.

Once firm, centralized control of the Navy was established under Thrawn, the Alliance’s tactical doctrine was changed to match its strategic doctrines. Maneuver warfare, multi-layered deceptions, and innovative uses of interdiction fields were the highlights of the Alliance’s tactical doctrines.

Once the Empire of the Hand joined the war in Thrawn’s second year, intervening at the Admiral’s behest, strategic doctrines were changed slightly, as the resources of the Empire of the Hand allowed the Alliance to fight on an equal strategic footing with the Empire. Because of this, the strategic doctrine of a stateless strategy became impossible to maintain, and the capture of strategic hyperlanes became the focus of their strategic plans, forcing the Imperial forces into fortress-world choke-points.

The Galactic Civil War would forever change Naval doctrine, and would remain relevant until the collapse of the Fel Empire.

* * *

**NAVAL WEAPONRY**

The long-range shipkiller at the outset of the Galactic Civil War was the torpedo, capable of maximum accelerations as high as 2,000 gravities, and are typically fitted with defensive ECM, shield penetrators (of varying effectiveness,) and a proton warhead.

Because of the limited acceleration time of torpedoes, their maximum velocity is almost always under the speed of light, making them trackable by sensor systems, and destroyable by anti-missile systems.

Anti-missile systems are usually split between medium-range anti-missile missiles which use kinetic kill warheads, and a mixed battery of turbolasers and lighter plasma cannons to destroy incoming missiles. Kinetic cannons are occasionally used, but multi-use turbolasers have replaced them aboard modern warships.

Energy weapons come in all shapes and sizes, but can be roughly categorized into two types; directed-energy, and bolted.

Directed-energy weapons are rare in modern naval warfare, as, while they are lightspeed weapons, the energy input to output ratio is lower than modern plasma cannons. In Xim the Despot’s time, directed-energy weapons were the mainstay of capital warships, but they have fallen out of favor for the reasons stated above, as well as improvements in shielding technology. They have recently made a resurgence, as the main armament of the _DS-1_ -class battlestation, and similar Imperial superweapons.

Bolted weapons are almost exclusively plasmatic in nature, using superhated tibanna gas to generate highly volatile plasma, and utilizing a magnetic bolt to contain the plasma. The magnetic bolt acts as a sabot of a sort, allowing electromagnetic acceleration coils to grab it, and launch it at high speeds.

Unlike kinetic weapons, (torpedoes and kinetic cannons,) bolted weapons have a maximum range determined by the speed of the degradation of the magnetic containment bolt.


End file.
